


Renengade

by linda92595



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Attempted Rape, M/M, No Incest, Not Related
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linda92595/pseuds/linda92595
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Total AU.  M/M sex. Violence. No one is related to anyone else so no Wincest. This story takes place in a world were the supernatural is a “normal” part of the world. Dean is a FBI Agent with the Paranormal Enforcement Division. Sam is his partner and a psychic that uses his powers for the bureau. John is an aging prostitute (and for the purposes of this story I changed John to JDM’s real age of 40), who is also a witch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renengade

            Los Angeles, November 27, 2006

 

The black Chevy Impala was an anachronism in place that was all image, and no substance. The car was every bit as showy as the Ferraris and Lamborghinis that lined the expensive streets, but with a subtle air of muscle to back it. The driver pulled the car into a spot on Spring Street, just across from the newly renovated Los Angeles County Court house. Two young men got out of the Chevy, darting across the street. The FBI’s LA office was located on the ground-level floor behind the County Recorder’s offices.

 

The taller of the two men pulled open the door, and they both disappeared into the maze of desks and tables that crowded the front room. A plump middle-aged woman was seated behind the foremost table and she looked up at them smiling when they stopped beside her desk.

 

Holding his badge and id in front of his chest, the older of pair nodded, glancing at her nameplate. “Good afternoon, Ms. Gordon. I’m Dean Morgan and this is Sam Bennett. We’re out of the DC office. I need to speak to Assistant Director Elliot.”

           

She glanced at the door, and then bristled. “Well, Agent Morgan, I’m afraid he’s not in just at the moment.”

 

Dean frowned.  “Ms. Gordon, we have an appointment…”

 

Sam touched his temple wincing in pain. “Besides I know he’s here. He can’t hide from this. We were sent specifically to find this informant, and he was expecting us.”

 

He smiled, and the woman huffed.

 

“Damned psychics.”

 

The woman slid her chair out and motioned them to follow her. She paused at the door to an office tapping impatiently on it. Opening the door Ms. Gordon stood back. The office was neatly decorated, if bland and generic. Behind a huge oak desk sat an older man, his gray hair neatly framing a broad forehead, and clear gray eyes. He nodded abruptly, and jerked a hand at the younger agents. Dean and Sam walked into the room, and Ms. Gordon retreated closing the door after her. The Assistant Director frowned in their direction, "I'm terribly busy now, gentlemen. I hope that this is worth my time and trouble."

 

Dean smiled blandly, and Sam didn't need to be a psychic to see he was annoyed. Dean handed a memo to the Assistant Director. "I think that this is well worth your time. We have authorization from the home office to use this subject as an informant and make use of his particular talents in apprehending our perp."

 

A.D. Elliot grunted, "This particular subject is the reason that you are looking for this perpetrator, Agent Morgan."

 

"I'm not sure I follow you."

 

The Assistant Director pushed a file across the top of the desk. It was thick, dog-eared and covered in colored retrieval slips. Apparently this file was much used. "John Winchester."

 

Dean picked up the file and flipped through it. "What does Mr. Winchester have to do with our perp? The perp is a renegade demon, who came across the dimensional threshold without proper clearance."

 

"No, he didn't." Elliot said, waving a hand at the file. "Mr. Winchester is a witch. He no longer practices the craft, but he was one of the most gifted practitioners until about ten years ago. He facilitated this renegade crossing over. As a result his license to practice magic was revoked and he was sent to prison."

 

Sam glared at the file. "Irresponsible witches wreak all kind of havoc in this world, why wasn’t he burned?  Prison is too good for them; at least they got this bastard off the street."

 

 Elliot shrugged. “Bleeding heart judges. You can’t get them to burn witches at the stake anymore. It violates the cruel and unusual punishment clause in the Bill of Rights.

 

Dean glanced over at his partner. "How did Mr. Winchester facilitate this demon in unauthorized entry to our spiritual plane?"

 

"It was a summoning spell. He paid the price for it. The same renegade killed his wife and son while Mr. Winchester was in custody. It’s the only reason that he survived. Since his release five years ago he's been in and out of jail quite a few times."

 

"Unauthorized magic use?" Dean asked cocking his head. The older man grinned shaking his head.

 

"Prostitution." He nodded to the two younger men. "I really need to go, Agent Morgan, Agent Bennett. A list of Mr. Winchester's known associates and his address is in the file."

 

Dean nodded pleasantly then handed the file to Sam. The younger man took the folder tucking it under his arm. Both young men offered a wave to Ms. Gordon who huffed at them as if they had the plague. Dean smiled. Motioning Sam through the double glass doors he pulled the car keys out of his pocket.

 

The first address on the list of possible places they might find John Winchester was O'Malley's Tavern on Broad Street. Traffic was at a standstill and Dean muttered curses under his breath as the minutes ticked by. Finally, he saw and opening and pulled onto the 101 Freeway. They hit the Broad Street exit just as the 3:00 rush hour kicked in.

 

O'Malley's was an impressive structure. Part of old downtown LA it was a rough hewn wood and plaster façade on an older red brick building. The front of the tavern had two huge plate glass windows, and a double door--frosted glass with heavy old wood sat squarely in the middle of the front wall.

 

Dean stripped off his suit jacket and tie, tossing them over the seat; he opened the top three buttons on his blue chambray shirt and rolled up the sleeves. Sam rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Dean nodded at him. "We want to look as non-threatening as possible, no point in spooking him until we can get him cuffed and back at the hotel."

 

Sam flinched, he had been Dean's partner for a year now, since his graduation from Quantico, and he was sometimes leery of the older agent's hard-assed manner of handling business.  But Dean Morgan was a man who got things done, and he dealt with creatures that many other people would be terrified of. So the Bureau gave him a lot of leeway in how he got the job done.

 

With an annoyed expression Dean picked up the file, flipping through the pages until he found the one he wanted. He looked at the picture of John Winchester and gave an appreciative whistle. "Not bad, no wonder he took up hustling. He has the looks for it."

 

He flipped the file to Sam who glanced at the photo. It was a much better picture than Winchester’s grainy black and white booking photo on the memo they had been given, showing a man who was in his late thirties, maybe forty--with dark brown hair, and hazel eyes. He had a couple of day's stubble that added a kind of rugged charm to his features. Sam shrugged noncommittally and said, "Not bad if you like older men."

 

Dean offered him a smile. "And I do."

 

Dean had parked the car on the opposite side of the street. Since the Impala looked nothing like a typical FBI vehicle, he was reasonably sure the Winchester could not peg them as feds. He stepped out of the car, and leaned against the side door as Sam settled by the hood. He focused his attention on the bar, dropping his head and rolling his shoulders slightly, to loosen up. His visions flowed more smoothly, and with less pain if he was relaxed. He got a good view of the inside of the bar. A huge black topped bar ran the length of the back wall, glass shelves filled with bottles of liquor behind it. The center of the bar back held a huge painting by some classical artist, naked women lying on an old fashioned four-posted bed. There were tables on both ends of the room, and three large pool tables in the center.

 

Sam smiled there were only a few patrons in the bar at this time of the day. An elderly man with a younger woman, whom Sam was certain, was also a prostitute, and John Winchester.

 

“He’s inside, “Sam said dropping his focus and letting the vision fade.  He quickly slipped off his suit coat, but checked that his gun was tucked into the shoulder holster he wore, pulling a dark colored windbreaker out of the backseat. He took off his tie, and ruffled his hair a little. Dean had his .45 tucked into the back of his trousers, and made no effort to hide it. Sam nodded and both men crossed the street.

 

The bar’s interior was softly lit, mellow golden light from gold and green-glass lamps lining the side panels picked up the hint of gold in the oak paneling. The tables were highly polished gleaming and golden hued, surrounded by straight backed chairs with green padded seats. The bars stools were brass, and lent an air of elegance to the place that was at odds with the rough exterior. The entire room brought an old fashioned western saloon to Sam’s mind.

 

Just as he had “seen” there was an older man, retired military from his looks, seated at one table with a thirtyish blonde woman wearing too tight clothes and too much makeup. She giggled with more enthusiasm than Sam thought was necessary as he cracked a dirty joke. They had a half-filled bottle of Jack Daniels on the table and two study crystal cut glasses. He frowned, it was only three-thirty and a little early for that much booze.

 

Dean left his partner standing beside the door, and ambled to the bar. On a stool at the far end sat a lone figure. Dean recognized him as John Winchester from the photos in his police file. Instead of going to that end of the bar, he stepped up in front of the bartender and ordered a beer. The man glanced up at him, and smiled. “You new around here?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said taking the offered bottle. He took a sip, grimacing at the flat taste—so O’Malley cheaped out on the beer. “Hey, is there anywhere a guy can pick up a little short term companionship around here? Not something on the corner but a little better quality, you know?”

 

The bartender wiped at a non-existent spot on the gleaming bar, taking in Dean’s relaxed attitude and expensive clothes. Dean ducked his head to cover his grin; they all pegged him as some yuppie stock trader or something. Finally, the older man spoke. “Well, it all depends on what you’re looking for. Chrissie there can be real companionable.”

 

Dean looked over at her, and then shook his head. “Not my type, if you get my drift.” He said it smoothly enough that the other man didn’t bat an eyelash. Finally,

the bartender smiled.

 

“Well, there’s John.”

 

He hooked a thumb at the far end of the bar. Dean glanced down at the man huddled over a glass of tequila, and started to rise, but the bartender caught him with a raised eyebrow. “John’s not so companionable, but I’ve heard he’s worth it anyway.”

 

Leaning forward he hissed,. “He’s one of those witches, I’ve heard he can put a spell you that’ll make you come so hard your brain leaks out the end of your dick.”

 

With a grunt Dean rose picking up the still full beer bottle and ambled down the bar. Pulling out a bar stool he glanced over at the older man and said, “Mind if I join you?”

 

John shrugged, “Its not like I can stop you, is it”

 

Dean grinned at him, then lowered his gaze, just glancing at John from under his lashes. The other man grimaced, and Dean laughed.

 

“The bartender says that you might be, well, if not exactly companionable at least cooperative?” The rising lilt of the younger man’s voice made it less of a statement than a question. John lifted the glass of tequila and Dean watched as his throat moved when he swallowed, he wondered if John’s throat moved that way when he gave head. Shivering he busied himself with the beer. John turned to face him on the barstool with a sigh.

 

“I can be…cooperative, with the right incentive.”

 

           

Dean nodded. “How much incentive are we talking about?”

 

“That depends on how cooperative you want me to be.”

 

Suddenly the older man was all business. “I usually get one hundred an hour; how you spend the hour is up to your imagination, but if you want something weird--the price goes up. If you get off on tying me up or slapping me around, the price goes up, too. Nothing so bad that I can’t work afterwards; so no cutting. And I don’t do animals; don’t even ask or couples so your little friend there waits his turn or goes away. If you get off on him watching then it’s your dime, but I don’t touch him and he doesn’t touch me—got it.”

 

“That’s not very cooperative, uhmm….”

 

“John,” he said. “Yeah, well take it or leave it. I got no problems finding clients. Tell you what, I can add a little to the mix. If you have trouble getting hard or you want to stay hard and come two maybe three times. I know a couple of tricks. It’s all part of my charm.”

 

Dean cocked his head at the other man as if he might not believe him. John held up a hand baring his wrist. Dean caught sight of the faint outlines of a tattoo from the Magic Users union. He whistled. “So you can cast spells, and get it done.”

 

“Yeah, I can.” John shrugged. “Do you have a hotel room? I don’t usually do business at my place. It annoys the neighbors.”

 

Rising from his seat Dean held out a hand. “That’s no problem. I’ve got a room, at the Marriott, just down the street.”  John stood up and Dean turned on him. His eyes flashing a cold green light, he pulled handcuffs out of his jacket pocket, and grabbed the older man’s arm. He jerked John around slamming him against the bar, John grunted as the air was driven out of his lungs. Dean pulled his hands up, cuffing John with more force that was strictly necessary. “John Winchester, you’re under arrest for prostitution, and conspiracy to commit unlawful magic use.”

 

He tugged John over to where Sam stood. The younger agent frowned at the amount of force his partner was using on the older man, especially considering that he was not making any effort to resist.  Sam intervened taking the cuffs from Dean.

 

“Mr. Winchester you have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning….”

 

They hustled the older man out the door, and across the street. Dean hissed. “Sam, I’m sure John knows his rights better than you do. Isn’t that right, John?”

 

John growled, “Fuck off, you bastard. You’ll never get this to stick in court. It was entrapment; I said I was cooperative…”

 

“Yeah cooperative—and not a whore.” Dean slammed him against the side of the car, then hustled him around and opened the door. He shoved John in roughly and barely missed slamming the door on his leg. John lay across the backseat.

 

“Dean,” Sam said grabbing his partner’s arm. “We want him to cooperate. We need him to track this demon. You’re abusing him, and it was entrapment.”

 

“Sam that demon has murdered a lot of innocent people, and this bastard is the one who summoned it. He’s just getting what he deserves, and if he’s very smart he’ll take it.” Focusing his attention on the figure huddled in the back seat Dean sneered. Then slid into the car.  “And if he’s any kind of smart at all he’ll take the deal we offer him.”

 

“Look,” John said sullenly. “Just take me to jail. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

 

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. “You just listen, and maybe you don’t go to federal prison.”

 

“Federal prison for prostitution? How did I get federal prison for that?” John said. “You know I could make a claim for brutality, you roughed me up.”

 

“Who’d believe you, huh?  You’ve got a record half a mile long, and you committed one of the worst crimes imaginable.” Dean glanced in the rearview mirror, and John seemed to fold in on himself. He sat slumped over, not looking at anything. Dean felt a stab of guilt. He was being too rough on the guy, he knew that and it hurt him. But he got paid to make the really bad things go away, and John Winchester was the key to making the biggest of the bad that the Bureau was after go away.

 

The parking lot at the Marriott Hotel was virtually empty. It was off season and nothing important was happening in town that week. Dean liked the odds, fewer people to see him dragging a hooker into his room.  They caught the outside elevator, and avoided going through the lobby. Sam had the keycards in his pocket; he handed one to his partner as they stood impassively while the buttons for the floors slipped past. On the fifth floor they got out, walking down the quiet hallway to their room.

 

The Bureau had sprung for a two room suite with a central living area. It was nice and it would be their home, all three of them, for the remainder of the time that Dean and Sam were in Los Angeles. Sam opened the door taking his bag to one of the bedrooms. Dean tossed his bag on the sofa and shoved John into a chair. John refused to look up as Dean poured himself a drink, and leaned back against the wall holding the glass a loft. "So John, here's the deal. Agent Bennett and I are tracking the demon that you so conveniently allowed into our physical plane of existence, and you're going to help us find it."

 

"Fuck off; I'm not helping you do anything." John snarled. Dean smiled pleasantly, took a step forward and slapped John hard across the face. Without his hands for balance the older man fell across the chair. Dean reached out dragging him upright again.

 

"Wrong answer, John. You summoned the bastard so you can track him. I've even got a conditional use permit for you to use magic during the hunt. So listen up, here's the deal that my boss has authorized me to offer you. If you assist us in apprehending this felon demon then the federal government with lift your ban on magic using. You can be reinstated in the union and practice again. It's a damn sight better than whoring, and you might even be able to redeem yourself in the eyes of the community."

           

John slumped over. He looked at Dean. "No, there's no redeeming myself. I can't help you."  Dean frowned he stepped forward and slapped John again. The other man looked down at the floor, not moving. Angry, the agent grabbed him twisting his arm up.

 

"Don't get smart with me. I have a reputation for dealing with all kinds of nasty things. It would be a shame if one of those things got a taste for whore."

 

John laughed bitterly. "I've been expecting it for years. That demon of yours killed my wife and kid; it would have killed me too, but I was indisposed. Go ahead, nothing you can do to me is worse than what I live with everyday."

 

Sam pulled Dean away when he raised a fist over John. "That's enough." Turning to John he said, "You said you couldn't help not you wouldn't. Why can't you help us?"

 

John sighed. "Because I didn't summon the demon."

Dean rolled his eyes. “Don’t try to bullshit me, John.” He turned to his partner. “Well, Sam is he lying?”

 

Sam tilted his head, concentrating on the older man. “No, I don’t think so or at least he truly believes that he didn’t summon the demon, Dean.”

 

With a glare Dean settled on the arm of the chair, grabbing the front of John’s shirt. “What is it, did you summon the thing or not? I need to know what’s going on here.”

 

“Look…Dean, if you want to know what’s going on why don’t you ask your friend Bill Elliot? He’s knows what happened. He was there.”

 

“Elliot was there? He never mentioned it. You were convicted, and sent to prison for summon the demon, if you have evidence to the contrary why didn’t you present it at your trial.”

 

Sighing John shook his head. “Because I didn’t have any evidence, Elliot had it all. Back then Bill Elliot was just an LAPD officer, but he had ambition. I had done some work for him on a personal basis so he came to me to do work for the department when they needed magic done. He came to me during that kidnapping case-Senator Maxfield’s son. Everybody knew that Vinnie Minnelli was involved—that Maxfield was into the mob for a lot of money. And when that busload of school kids disappeared with Maxfield’s kid on it everybody knew that Minnelli was involved. Elliot was in charge of the case, and he took a Swat team over to Minnelli’s place to get him. But something went wrong and Minnelli got killed. That’s when Elliot came to me to summon Minnelli’s spirit to find out where the kids were. But when I set up the ritual and started to place the parchment with Minnelli’s name in the fire Elliot had the cops hold me down while he put in the parchment with the demon’s name. He cut a deal with the demon, and he got what he wanted, but the demon got free passage into our plane of existence.”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Sam asked sitting down on the sofa, John turned toward him. He shrugged. “You could ask for the case to be reopened. Maybe clear yourself.”

 

“The union traced the magic, and my DNA was all over it. I tried telling them, but Elliot had his deal and he was pretty much immune to anything I said or did. And now, as your partner points out—who’d believe a whore.”

 

Dean grunted, fingering the arm of the chair. He was beginning to feel that John might be telling the truth. He trusted Sam, his partner’s visions had solved cases and saved their lives on many occasions, but it was possible to lie to a psychic, though it was difficult. He rose suddenly and John flinched as if he expected Dean to hit him again. A stab of guilt twisted into the younger man’s belly. “John, you said that Elliot has the evidence, what do you mean? Once a spell has been cast, other than the trace, there’s not much left.”

 

“Elliot had the ritual videotaped. The last time I saw it he had it in his pocket. If he kept it, and I don’t think he would, then it’s in his office somewhere.”

 

Sam rose from his seat. “Then we need to get that tape. We need to see if the parchment is visible enough to see the name of the demon. It’s the only chance we have of capturing it. I think we need to make a trip to AD Elliot’s office.”

 

Dean nodded. “We’ll break in if we have to. I hate dirty cops almost as much as I hate demons. If Bill Elliot did this then he needs to be taken down. And a video tape of the ritual of summoning can aid us in track the demon since knowing a demon’s name is a way of gaining power over it.  John if we get that tape and clear you, I need you to help us hunt the demon.”

 

“I’ll need my stuff. I have a duffle bag in my apartment that has all my stuff for performing incantations and rituals. I need that.”

 

“All right, we’ll go by your place and pick up the bag. Then we’ll hit the FBI offices and see if Elliot has that tape.”

 

Dean motioned John up. He quickly unfastened the handcuffs, wincing when he saw that the older man’s wrists were abraded and bleeding. Sam followed them out the door. The hall was empty, and the door to the elevator stood open. Dean pushed the button for the ground floor and they exited the building.

 

It was a short trip to John’s apartment in a run-down area of town. Dean parked the car on a side street, under the sole streetlamp, hoping that it would discourage vandals.  The two agents escorted the older man to his door, Sam standing just outside while Dean accompanied him inside. The place was minimally furnished and bare looking, as if John rarely spent much time there. He quickly went to the closet and rummaged around pulling out a large black bag, and a leather journal.

 

Turning he motioned Dean to the counter dividing the dining area and the kitchen. He picked up several candles and dropped them in the bag along with a box of matches.

“That’s everything I need. I’ve got some extra clothes in the bag. I tend to travel light.”

 

“Good,” Dean said. He watched as John bolted the door. They followed Sam down the hall to the staircase.  The stairs ended at a double door with frosted glass that led out into the front street, away from the car. Dean grumbled about being turned around, but John led them down the sidewalk toward the side street.

 

Suddenly a car squealed around the corner of the street from the main road. The windows were half lowered, and a gun barrel protruded from the opening. Sam turned a panicked expression on his face. He pulled his handgun snapping off three shots before the clatter of automatic gunfire filled the night. Diving behind a parked car Sam was able to get off a few more shots, but the car disappeared around a corner, and sped away.

 

Dean was lying on the sidewalk, pinning John to the ground. He shifted and his knees came to rest between John’s spred thighs. Taking a deep breath the younger man breathed in the soft, musky scent of the other man. He shifted letting his thigh brush the inside of John’s leg. The older man looked up at him, and their eyes held. Dean noticed that his face was only an inch from John’s mouth. If he lowered his head just a fraction of the way their lips would meet. John shifted raising his arms, hands wrapping themselves around Dean’s biceps. His breath heaved in his chest, and he trembled. Dean, too aware of the tension in that hard, warm body, reluctantly slid his hands down John’s sides and pushed himself up and off of John. But he wondered what it would feel like to have that hard body lying under him, warm and compliant, eyes softened by pleasure instead of wide with fear.

The black Impala sat silently in the parking lot of the Chandler Music Center. Sam, Dean and John walked casually down the street as if they were simply out for the evening. Instead of turning into the pavilion they crossed the street then cut through the parking structure to appear on the Spring Street side just adjacent to the court house.

 

There was a chain link fence surrounding the parking lot and Sam snipped through the links with wire cutters. Dean and John helped him push the fence back so that they could get into the parking lot. Stooping low behind a few cars still parked in the spaces near the building Dean raised a hand pointing to the two security guards standing at the gate. “John, can you do anything about the guards.”

 

“Yeah, here let me get some things.” He dropped the bag and began assembling a small pile of herbs and dried plants in a pewter bowl. Adding a few drops of oil, he quickly ground the ingredients with a marble pestle. When the mixture was ground into a fine powder he picked up his journal. “I need to get a little closer, so that it gets both of them.” They crept around the car, hugging the fence and keeping to the shadows.

 

“You’re not going to hurt them are you?” Dean asked watching the proceedings with half-lowered eyes. John shot him a look.

 

“No, of course not, it’ll just make them not notice us.” He shook the powder into his hand and chanted an incantation over it. Finally, raising his hand he blew the powder into the wind and whispered, “Turn a blind eye.”

 

Dean looked somewhat skeptical but Sam followed John across the parking lot and to the guard shack. The two men stood talking in bored tones, while the three simply crept silently past, and disappeared inside the building. The public areas of the front hall, including the newspaper stand and the shoe shine area were closed, but some of the offices were still dimly lit blurred figures, behind the rippled glass doors, walking in the silent rooms.

 

The three found Elliot’s office door, but it was still opened, voices issuing from inside. Dean motioned the others back, slipping closer to the door. He could see Bill Elliot and his secretary still working on several files on the desk in his office. Dean waved Sam and John into the hall, and then dropped down crawling so that he was below desk level. Sam and John crept into the office one at a time. The three huddled in the front room, sheltered by a bank of filing cabinets waiting for Elliot and his secretary to finish.

           

In a few minutes Ms. Gordon bid Elliot a good night, collected her purse and jacket and left the office. Assistant Director Elliot made two phone calls then pulled the door to his office close, locked it and left the front room. He closed the door behind him.

 

Sam stood quickly, crossed the room and bent to inspect the door lock. He smiled and said over his shoulder in Dean's general direction, "Single tumbler, I'll have it opened in a minute. They really cheaped out on this building, didn't they."

 

He pulled a set of micro-tools out of his pocket and had the door opened in short time.  Dean crossed to the desk and picked the lock on the drawer. Bending down he searched beneath the papers filling the drawers. At the bottom of one drawer he found a file on the Maxfield kidnapping, it contained documents and even held several copies of cash vouchers made out to John Winchester for services rendered.  Dean read the dates on the vouchers and glanced over at John. "There are about a dozen vouchers here made out to you, but some of them were after the Maxfield case, when your license to practice magic was revoked, but before you were sent to prison. Did Elliot have you do some kind of illegal magic use?"

 

John blushed. "No, actually, the money came from petty cash, at least that's what he said, since, at the time, I was no longer accepting checks for the services that I was rendering."

 

Sam looked horrified. "Assistant Director Elliot was hiring you in your uhmm…current capacity, and charging the bill to the Bureau?" He shook his head, glancing back at Dean.

 

Dean snorted at his partner's scandalized expression. "You know, John I find that extremely distasteful."

 

 John shrugged. "Elliot is not the only client I have that charges my fees to his expense account. It's fairly common; I can't believe you find that distasteful."

 

"No-- not that, what I find distasteful is that you'd actually stoop so low as to let Bill Elliot fuck you."

 

"Believe me I wouldn't except he told me that if I would cater to his special needs he’d not only pay me but he'd go to the district attorney with a sort of edited version of that tape that would let me off the hook. That was a lie, too."

 

Settling on the edge of the desk Sam cocked his head at John then asked, "What kind of special needs?"

 

John shrugged, face coloring again. "He has a thing for cigarette burns, usually in places that no one really gets a good look at."  He flinched at the look on Dean's face. The younger man was slowly going a deep shade of crimson, anger evident in his every movement.

 

"On you or on him?”

 

"What do you think? Look, it's not the first time; some guys get off on doing damage. It's no big thing, really."

 

Dean rose stiffly uncertain of why he was so angry, and turned toward the bank of filing cabinets. "Sam let's start going through the files."

 

The younger man nodded and began pulling out drawers. After a few minutes Dean gave up and stepped closer to John touching the older man's arm.

 

"Look, I didn't mean anything by that.  What I mean is…I just think it's horrible that you had to do that, because Elliot sold you out. I hate the idea of somebody hurting you like that."

 

"Yeah, you could have fooled me; you were doing a damn good job of imitating him in the hotel room." John said softly. Dean winced.

 

"About that, uhmm…I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gone off on you like that, it was bullshit and it was wrong."

 

John gaped at him. "Shit, nobody's apologized to me in a long time, not since the demon, anyway."

 

He flushed glancing at the younger man. He felt a quick spike of heat clenching his stomach, and swallowed in dismay. He had a horrible feeling that it just might be possible that he could fall in love with Dean Morgan.  A feeling that had evaded him since Mary had died. Quickly John forced the feeling down, the younger man was an FBI agent, and well respected. He certainly wouldn't be interested in a discredited witch who was now just a whore.  Turning away he walked to the filing cabinets, pulling one of the drawers open.

 

It took them four hours to rifle through all the drawers in the room. They found several tapes, including one of John's interrogation at the LAPD offices which clearly showed him being abused by one of the arresting officers. They found more vouchers, but nothing that could connect Bill Elliot to the ritual of summoning that allowed the demon to cross over.

 

John settled in a chair looking depressed. Sam sat down beside him, clearing his thoughts and began focusing on the image of John performing the ritual earlier in the parking lot. He pulled the image of a summoning ritual he had once witnessed and blended the two together—trying to pull together an image of what might be contained on the video tape.

 

Suddenly Sam crumpled over as a white-hot pain seared his brain. The image of the ritual flared, growing incredibly bright in his mind. He could see John chanting, throwing herbs into a fire and pulling a parchment out of his bag.  The image rotated spinning to John’s point of view and Sam could just make out Elliot’s face in the dim flare of fire light, along side another man. The second man grabbed John’s wrist wrenching the parchment away as Elliot threw a paper from his own pocket into the fire. John shouted, and the vision faded. Sam rose on unsteady feet, and awkwardly stumbled to the far wall. "Here," he said. "There's a hidden compartment behind this large photo."

 

Sliding his fingers beneath the frame Sam felt for a catch that would open the compartment door. He finally felt a small knob on the side of the frame, and pushed in. The door sprang open with a click. Sam reached inside.

 

He drew out a small padded envelope. Shaking it open he caught a video cassette and a rolled parchment. Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder taking the parchment. It was a written contract between Bill Elliot and the demon. Even though the demon's name was not on the contract the sigils engraved in the sides were clearly defined as bargaining symbols commonly used in human/demon contracts. Dean grinned, "Here it is. Not only the video, but the contract as well."

 

John smiled. "What do we do?"

 

A sudden sharp sound from the office door caught their attention and all three men turned around. Elliot stood in the doorway. His gun was in his hand, and he was rapping the barrel against his palm. "Agent Morgan, I've always heard that you were a man who knew his way around. I'm not surprised by your reputation; you certainly figured this one out. Too bad the Bureau's going to lose so valuable an asset. Place the video and parchment back in the safe, Agent Bennett, and you and the whore move away from the wall. I should have just killed you Winchester. No one would have raised a fuss. Now you've gotten these two young men mired down in the dirt with you. Of course, you have no shame anyway, so it really doesn’t surprise me."

 

Sam made a move as if to take the cassette from Dean's hand, but he jerked his hand, and Elliot's gun spun out his fist. The assistant director's face went white.  As quickly as he could Elliot jumped for the weapon as it tumbled to the floor. Dean was quicker, he grabbed the gun, slamming it down on the assistant director's head. Elliot fell heavily, stunned for a moment.

 

As Dean, Sam and John ran out of the office Elliot scrambled across the floor, and pulled himself up the side of his desk. Tugging the phone over he punched in a number and hissed.

 

 "Jack, its Bill Elliot. We have a problem. Your men screwed up, I told you that those two would get to Winchester. Well, they have John Winchester. And that's not all. They have the tape and the contract. And if they see that ritual you're in this up to your neck, just like me."

 

 Elliot moved to the window beside the desk, he could not see the three men from his vantage point and decided that they must have parked their vehicle on the other side of the parking structure near the music pavilion.

 

Directing his attention to the voice on the phone he sighed, "I'm going to call the DC office in the morning find out what kind of car they have, I want you to send out some of your men, and make sure that they get that tape back, and the parchment. No, your men will have to do it. I can't order agents in on this without justifying it to the DC office. I know that that Morgan and Bennett are staying here in town. The only thing I can see doing tonight is staking out John Winchester's apartment. Yeah, here's the address." Elliot read the notes off his phone pad and listened to the man on the other end.  "We're going to have to kill all three of them now, Morgan and Bennett know too much, and I want the whore dead too, just on general principal. Maybe tell your men to have a little fun with him first."

 

The clock read two a.m. when Dean opened the door to their suite at the Marriott. He closed the door behind them, and flicked on the lights. Dean's suitcase and laptop case were still untouched on the sofa where he had dropped them earlier. He looked over at Sam. "Do you have all your stuff together? We can't stay here."

 

Sam nodded in agreement, "No, Elliot will have someone after us as soon as possible and I bet he'll call DC as soon as the office is open, to find out where we’re staying. My bags are packed. We can get out of the city tonight, and find a place to hole up while we decide what to do."

 

"What about you, John?"

 

"I have some clothes in my bag, and some money, too.  If you want to drop me off the first place you can, maybe Elliot will let you go. If he thinks I have the tape, he'll come after me; you and your partner can go back to Washington.”

 

"No," Dean said. "We're in this together. You're going to help us finish tracking this demon, then we'll take the tape to our boss in DC and get this straightened out for you John. We'll get your name cleared, and get that bastard Elliot, too."

 

John shook his head. "Don't kid yourself, Dean. Elliot has connections with the mob, and with other equally nasty non-human things. He'll come after us, and he won't stop at killing us to get that tape back. You two are better off without me."

 

"That's not going to happen. Sam got your stuff together?" The younger man nodded. Dean flipped the two keys cards onto the table. "Since we use my car, and not a bureau car, it'll take them a little while to find us. We better stick to paying cash for things, and try to avoid using bureau expense accounts."

 

They got off the elevator at the ground floor. Dean pulled his gun, holding it down to his side and out of sight. Sam pushed John between them and pulled his weapon as well. The street was empty, nothing moving as far as they could see. Dean motioned John into the rear seat and Sam took shot gun. He started the Impala, and pulled onto the empty street.

 

They drove until just before dawn, finally, pulling into a Motel 6 parking lot. There was a diner next to the hotel and several semi trucks parked on the shoulder of the road. Dean went into the office and came back with a key to room number 16, a room on the side of the motel facing away from the street. He glanced around the barren lot behind the pool enclosure but saw nothing moving.

 

Sam yawed widely, pulling his bag out of the rear seat. He shoved John's things over to the older man, and he got out of the car as well. Dean was already unlocking the door to the room. He turned on the bathroom lights so that they could just make out the interior of the room. There were two queen-sized beds against the side wall separated by a dresser, and a small table and four chairs beside the window. The door to the bathroom was on the opposite wall, and Dean checked the interior just to be safe.

 

Sam stripped off his clothes pulling a pair of sweat pants out of his bag. Tugging down the blankets on one of the beds, he slid in and was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. John stripped to his boxers and a tee-shirt. He pulled up the blankets on the bed beside Sam, but Dean stopped him. "No, over here--I …uh…don't want you near the windows."

 

Nodding John moved to the bed while Dean stripped and settled his holstered gun on the dresser within reach. John slid gratefully into the cold, crisp sheets. Dean checked the locks, and hurried over to the bed. He pulled up the covers, settling with his back to the other man. John fell asleep listening to the younger man's deep regular breathing.

 

Sometime, perhaps only an hour or so, later John awoke to find Dean spooned up behind him. He wriggled back enjoying the feel of Dean's warm breath whispering across his neck and shoulder. Dean sighed, smoothing his hand down John's arm. He slid closer, hips bumping against John's ass.

 

John stilled when he felt the hard length of Dean's dick slide into the crack of his ass. He moved, grinding down hearing and feeling the younger man's sharp indrawn breath. Dean came awake with a start. John looked over his shoulder then tugged his boxers down to his knees. "If you want, there's some lube and condoms in my bag. You saved my life, so I owe you."

 

Dean put his hand over John's, stopping him from stripping his underwear completely off. "No, not that I don't want you, John. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t interested. It's just you don't owe me anything for keeping them from shooting you, its part of my job. And you sure don't owe me that. When we make love the first time, I want it to be because you want me, care about me. And you don't know me well enough right now. Let's take it slow, John--right now."

 

John swallowed around a lump in his throat. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about what he wanted. He sighed, struggling back into his clothes, and letting his head drop to the pillow. He had kept Mary in his heart, still mourned her and their baby boy. He cut off any warm feelings he felt, using his body to keep people away. Now Dean threatened to knock down all his carefully constructed walls. And John decided that he just might let him.

 

A bright slice of sunlight hit him in the face, and Sam rolled onto his back groaning. His head felt heavy, almost as if he was hung-over. Delving into the past or into people’s minds often hit him hard. He sat up slowly struggling to assimilate the information that he had gleaned from probing John’s mind. He knew that John Winchester was innocent of the crimes he had been convicted, knew that Assistant Director Elliot was complicit in the demon crossing over, but something sat in the back of Sam’s mind. Something worried at his brain, telling him that John Winchester had not told them the entire truth about the demon.

 

He rolled over sighing, and glanced at the other bed. Dean was wrapped around John, arm draped over the older man’s waist, hand flat against his stomach. He had drifted as close to John as possible. Dean’s head resting on the same pillow, cheek pressed against John’s soft brown hair. Sam frowned; it really wasn’t like his partner to get so involved with a subject, especially one they were using as a consultant in a case. He had only known Dean for a short time and in all that time Dean had kept to a solitary existence. Maybe he was tired of being alone. Sam thought that John might have more of a hold on his partner than Dean wanted to admit.

 

They took turns in the bathroom, Dean and Sam waiting at the table for John who emerged clean shaven, and smiling. They gathered their belongings, locked the door and headed to the diner across the parking lot. Dean cocked his head at Sam. “You know, I’m really surprised that we haven’t got a call from the DC office yet. I don’t know why Elliot hasn’t gotten them after us.”

 

Sam shrugged, opening the door. John tailed after them carrying a small bag he had filled with magic supplies from his duffle bag before Dean had put all their suitcases in the trunk of the car. Sam held the door open for the other two men. Quickly he followed them inside lowering his voice and said, “Think about it, Dean. Do you really think that Elliot would want the home office to know what he’s been up to? He’ll call in favors from the mob, from demons indebted to him, they’ll be after us. We need to lay low, fly under their radar, and keep to our assignment while protecting John.”

 

Dean asked for a booth in the rear corner of the diner away from the window and they were silent as the waitress took them to the table. The placed their orders for breakfast, and sat drinking coffee while the waitress disappeared behind the counter. "We'll need money," Dean said, "We're on a strictly cash and carry basis, so we have to figure out what to do for cash on the way."

 

John shrugged. "This place is filled with trucks, and where there are trucks there's also truck drivers, I could…you know."

 

"Hell no!" Dean hissed, and John actually flinched at the heat in his voice. "You can peddle magic --healing spells, charms, protection spells that kind of thing, but under no circumstance are you peddling anything else, got it?" John nodded sheepishly, but he felt oddly warmed by the younger man's reaction to his offer. 

 

Dean leaned forward, “We’ll use the aliases we worked under in the Calderon drug case.” He glanced over at John. “I’ll have to make John a fake i.d.  The two of you look enough alike that I think he’ll be your brother. That way we can use the bank accounts that are set up under those names.” His glance flickered back to the older man again. “Sam and I worked under cover to bust a drug ring, using werewolves as enforcers. They sat us up with fake identities, as drug dealers. We have a shit-load of money in those accounts that’s not on the bureau books; I know Elliot won’t be able to track it. We’ll get you set up as Sam’s older brother.”

 

They ate in silence, until Dean motioned to the parking lot. “John, it's almost impossible for anyone driving through the parking lot to see this booth. Sam and I are going to the bank we passed down the highway. We’ll be back as fast as possible. I want to get as much cash as we can, and try not to use credit cards or the atm, anything that leaves a data trail.” 

 

When Sam was finished with his food Dean stood up. “John, you stay here. The bank is not very far, and this diner is too public for Elliot to send anyone in here after you.  Do not move from this booth. Don’t even think about running off either, all your stuff is in the trunk so you wouldn’t get far.”

 

“I won’t, I’ll stay here.” John said quietly, there was something underlying Dean’s tone of voice, something dark and smooth; that set John’s blood on fire. He sipped at the cooling coffee and watched the two younger men disappear out the door. When the waitress reappeared he asked for more coffee and studied the other people in the diner.

 

A young family came in, a couple that looked far too young to have children themselves. Blonde and good looking the girl smiled at John as she slid into the seat, lifting a toddler up beside her. The young man sat stiffly on the other side of the table. John could see the tension between them in the young man’s thin-lipped expression.

 

The baby, a boy of about three, shared his mother’s blue eyes and blond hair, and John winced, thinking of Mary, and Christopher. It seemed odd to him to actually have to call up the memory, since there had not been a day in the past ten years that Mary had been so far from his thoughts. He tested the memory and found it to be not so bitter; a warm vague feeling of nostalgia, and John wondered if Dean might not be the reason for the change.

 

The baby was crying, had been crying non-stop for about twenty minutes. The waitress look frazzled and the other customers looked down right hostile. John smiled; carefully he began dissecting a napkin, tearing it into small jagged squares. Once he had about twenty-five or so, he twisted them into little bow-like shapes. Gathering the paper bows up he turned to the boy. “Hey, look here, hold your hands out.”

 

The young woman focused her gaze on John, found him clean and well dressed enough that he was marginally acceptable to talk to her child. The boy distracted from his whining actually held his cubby little hands out to John.

 

Grinning John dropped the bows into the boy’s hands, then quickly muttered a spell. The paper bows rose, took wing and fluttered above the boy’s outstretched hands like butterflies. The boy’s eyes widened and he actually stopped sniffling. The paper butterflies danced and whirled, darting from the boy to his mother who was watching John with carefully guarded gratitude mixed with awe. Finally, she got up the nerve to speak. “Thank you, he’s been difficult all day. This is the first moment’s peace we’ve had.” The young man nodded, his expression not quite as relaxed as his wife’s however.

 

“So are you a witch?” he asked.

 

John sighed, wondering if he was one of the ones who disliked magic users. With a shrug he nodded, but the young man didn’t seem unduly offended. “Actually, I hurt my wrist his morning. I know it’s not broken but could you do a healing spell, something quick and not too expensive?”

 

“Sure, come over here.” John rummaged in the bag and pulled out a jar of thick, blue salve. He took the young man's wrist in his hand, rubbed the salve on it then wrapped it in a napkin. He took a deep breath and chanted the incantation for healing over it. It was an easy spell and he had it memorized. The salve glowed tainting the napkin neon blue, and the younger man smiled. “Hey, that feels great.” He flexed his wrist. “How much?”

 

“Its okay, don’t worry about it.” John said, and then turned suddenly as the waitress scrambled over making a desperate gesture to get his attention. She pointed ceiling-ward with a frown. The paper butterflies had escaped John’s sphere of influence and were running amok in the diner, darting and whirling throughout all the patron’s tables. Most people took the tiny kamikazes with good grace, but a few looked annoyed. Blushing John rose, “I’m sorry, I got distracted.” He raised his hand, and uttered a single word. The butterflies erupted into a shower of colored confetti. There was a smattering of applause and John felt his cheeks get warmer. He sat back down, hiding behind the coffee cup.

 

The kitchen door swung open and a large man dressed in white trousers and tee-shirt with a slightly stained apron charged into the dining room. He headed for John’s table and John was certain he was going to get his ass kicked out of the diner. The man stopped suddenly looking uncertain. “Hey, you…witch….”

 

“My name is John,” he said dryly. The man flushed his round face apologetic. He twisted his hands into the apron, drying them then offered to shake John’s hand. Winching John took the sweaty, meaty palm, and the man cleared his throat.

 

“You can do healing spells, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I can.” John offered. “Is there a problem?”

 

“My head cook burned his arm. If you can heal him so we don’t have to lose him to a trip to the hospital I’ll comp your lunch, you and your friends too.” The man, and John assumed he was the Tony of Tony’s Diner, motioned John to the kitchen. John grabbed his bag and walked through the door.

 

The Impala pulled back in to the parking lot, Dean turning the engine off as he passed the phony id he made for John over to his partner. Sam nodded in approval; it was real enough looking that he didn’t think anyone would question it. He tucked a wad of cash that Dean handed him into his wallet. Dean also pocketed a large stack of bills, and palmed an envelope with more cash that he intended to give to John, in case the three of them became separated. He didn’t intend for that to happen, but given that many of the creatures that they dealt with used magic it was a possibility. Sam and Dean had standard contingency plans about finding each other if it did happen. Dean was working on one for the three of them when he stepped out of the car.

 

When they walked into the diner Dean’s eyes automatically went to the booth in the rear corner. It was empty. His throat suddenly went dry. With a panicked expression he caught the waitress by the arm. “Where is the dark haired guy who was in the corner rear booth?”

 

“I don’t know I just got here.” She said snapping her gum. She disentangled her arm gave Sam an approving nod and hustled into the kitchen. Dean’s heart was hammering in his chest so hard that he was certain he was having a heart attack. Somewhere during the night John had become more than just a civilian caught up in a plot by a dirty FBI director and a demon. Dean had never believed in love at first sight, he was too calculated too controlled but John Winchester had just knocked him on his ass yesterday. All the calculated control failed him and Dean felt his chest squeeze. “God damn it Sam. They got him, right under our noses. I don’t see how they tracked us this fast, but they got him. He’s probably dead already.” He leaned against the wall, gulping in air through a throat that felt too dry and too tight to breathe.

 

The double doors to the kitchen swung open, and a fat man in white walked through with his arm around a man’s shoulder. “Hey, thanks guy.”

 

Dean’s vision narrowed to just the man under the meaty palm. He stalked across the room, bumped the fat man away and seized John by the shoulders. With a growl he shoved John across the alcove leading to the kitchen and up against the wall. Tony started to intervene until Dean slid his hand up John’s arm cradling the back of his skull in one palm. Dean leaned in; the other arm wrapped around John’s waist and pressed his lips against John’s, forcing his tongue into the older man’s mouth. He spent the next five minutes trying to pull John’s tonsils out. Finally, when he couldn’t draw enough breath he released John’s lips. John looked dazed. “Don’t ever do that to me again, John. I thought Elliot got you. Damn it I thought you might be dead.”

 

Sighing John held onto Dean feeling the younger man tremble with pent up anger and desire. He stoked his hand across Dean’s chest letting his fingers pop the top button on his shirt, until his thumb stroked bare skin. Dean shuddered.

 

“Oh god, baby,” he whispered into John’s ear. The slowly, aware that people were staring, he stepped back. “Don’t ever do that to me again, okay?”

 

“I think we’ve provided enough entertainment for the day. Maybe we should go.” John said grinning at the younger man’s flushed and damp face. “And Dean, don’t call me baby.”

Bill Elliot sat at his desk, nervously eyeing the phone. Jack Carter had sent a car load of men to Trask Street to stake out Winchester's apartment, but the man never showed. In fact, it was as if all three men, the two agents and the whore, had just up and disappeared. Carter was not amused, and Elliot could understand why. Both men had been partners in the LAPD ten years ago. They both had been trapped in stale marriages and dead-end careers when Elliot had been called in on the biggest case of his life, the Maxfield kidnapping case. Ultimately it had been Elliot's idea to call John Winchester in to summon the spirit of the dead mobster, but Carter had side-lined him, and brought up making a deal with a demon to advance their interests.

 

Elliot glared at the phone. He had placed a call to DC as soon as he had gotten in this morning trying to find out where Morgan and Bennett had been assigned quarters. If he was very lucky the younger agents had stayed put waiting to hear from the home office themselves before going in with Winchester and the tape. Somehow Elliot didn’t think so. Morgan didn’t seem like the sit and wait type, and even if he was younger Bennett had an air of quiet competency that was dangerous and deceptive. He had absolutely no doubts that both young men together were a force to be reckoned with. And he was in the unenviable position of being the one to do the reckoning.

 

His phone rang; he had had the call directed to his personal number instead of the switchboard. He picked the receiver up and made a few minutes of pleasant, nonsense conversation with the idiot on the other end before getting down to business. “The Marriott Hotel on Broadway, you mean the one near the West Coast Plaza. Yeah, I’ll get in touch with them right way. Thanks, you don’t know what this means to me.”

 

With an aggravated sigh Elliot called Jack Carter again. The other man answered as if he had been waiting for the call. “They’re at the Marriott; it’s pretty open for your men to try to get to them, provided that they are even there any more.”

 

An hour later a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of the Marriott with three men and a woman in it. The men were all large, dressed in plain black suits with suspicious looking bulges under their coats; the woman was small, older with faded brown hair and the prim look of an old maid. She touched the door to the elevator and winced. “They were here; they caught the elevator several times last night. First to check in, the two younger men alone, one non-magical the other a psychic; the second time they came they had another man with them, older--a magic user.” She slumped against the door rubbing her brow. One of the men slid his hand under her arm to support her. She went rigid. “Please Mr. Marcus; you’ll interfere with my visions. I’m quite alright. Let’s go up to the room.”

 

The men followed her into the elevator. She went ahead pausing intermittently to touch the wall or an object in the hall. Finally, she stopped in front of a door. When she placed a hand on the door it swung inward, revealing a large and empty suite. With a frown she moved deeper into the room. “They were here, but the room is cold. They’ve been gone a long time. I don’t know how much residual energy I can read, but I’ll try.”

 

Marcus and the other men waited by the door, wary of coming into the room while she was trying to read it. She shook her head. “Whatever plans they made they didn’t make them here. I can get a bit. The older agent…Morgan is it? He was angry, and violent with the older man—the witch.  They left in a hurry.” 

 

Marcus grinned, “Hostile to the witch, maybe Morgan will just kill him.”

 

Suddenly she went to the window looking down on the side street. “There was a car, something big and black. I don’t know what kind, but its old not a modern car, and not something that they got from the FBI lot; I think it belongs to Agent Morgan.”

 

Sneering Marcus leaned against the wall pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. “A big, black, old, car, that’s a whole lot to go on, Shirley.” He punched in a number. “Yeah boss, the psychic broad thinks that they left last night, the room’s cold but she saw a car. She doesn’t freakin’ know. Okay, we’ll be there in about fifteen.”

 

Turning to Shirley he smiled, “The boss needs you to come to his office. He’s got some car books, and he wants you to look at pictures, see if maybe you can spot this big, black, old, car.”

 

Jack Carter’s office was in the Sanyo Bank Building on the 33rd floor. It was a huge corner office with an entire wall of glass that held a stunning view of the city of Los Angeles. Far off in the distance Shirley could see a news copter circling the intersection of Main and Figueroa, and she thought it was probably a bank robbery. Carter wasn’t in the office when Marcus led her in. He went to the side board, and opened an ice bucket plunking several cubes into a crystal highball glass. He splashed a generous portion of whiskey into the glass then turned to Shirley. “Hey, you want a drink, lady?”

 

She shook her head, frowning. Marcus seemed awfully free with the boss’s booze. She watched as he casually scarfed down the expensive whisky and went back for more. With a huffed breath she leaned against the desk and was hit by an image of Carter, trousers around his ankles, with the bigger man behind him. “So that was how it was,” she thought to herself.

 

A large photograph on the wall caught Shirley’s attention. It was vulgar and in extremely poor taste, but it drew her in. She studied it, letting her mind wander over the curves and lines of the automobile, ignoring the blonde draped over the hood with her legs spread. A small gold plaque was pinned to the frame just below the photo. It read, “1967 Chevrolet Impala.”  The color was wrong, it should be black not red, but Shirley’s hand brushed the glass tracing the chrome on the hood. A blinding white pain hit her mid-forehead heralding a premonition…some future event.

 

_The sky was as black as the paint of the car. The only light was the pale blue glow of moonlight and the warmer golden glow of the interior car light back-dropping the silhouettes of two men. The Impala was parked in the shadows of several large trees, the front doors were both open and music was blasting out of the interior, filling the night. The two figures in front of the car were Dean Morgan, his face bathed in the glow of the interior dome light cutting through the windshield and another man whose face she could not see. The other figure was propped against the hood of the car, his jacket half fallen off his shoulder; tee-shirt rucked up under his arms. His head was back and Morgan had his face buried in the other man’s throat, saliva gleamed on pale skin surrounded by dark stubble.  The figure turned his head just enough for Shirley to see it was Winchester. Morgan’s shirt was opened, un-buttoned down to his waist, and his trousers were down, although she couldn’t see his hips since John Winchester’s right leg was propped up on the car’s bumper, his thighs spread around the younger man’s body. Morgan was thrusting hard enough to rock the entire car and Winchester’s head rolled back as he cried out…_

Faced flushed Shirley snatched her hand away from the photo as if it was molten metal. She turned to Marcus offering him a small shrug. “I don’t think that Agent Morgan is angry with John Winchester any longer.”

 

************************

 

Sam was stretched out in the rear seat of the car. He balanced a laptop on his knees opening the files he had downloaded the night before, in one of the many cheap motels they had been staying in the past two weeks. He leaned forward as much as the computer would allow, knocking several fast food wrappers to the floor. He winched. “Dean, we need to head east, to a little town called Jerome, Nevada. I have noticed that there is a pattern to the killings that our perp has been involved in. It's a widening concentric circle spreading out from Los Angeles to a clockwise direction. The killings occur every year, twelve to the year, and move in an outward spiral.”

 

“A search pattern?” Dean asked, looking in the rearview mirror at the younger man. Sam nodded, holding up the computer.

 

“Yes, a search pattern, as if the demon is looking for a specific child or children. Some of the cases reported finding the remains of the infant in the crib, in all of the cases one or both parents are kill, and the houses burned. But in a number of the cases the infant’s remains were presumed immolated in the fire. I think it's searching for all the children born on November 2, 1996. It’s killing most of them, but I think it's taking a few for whatever reason.”

 

John flinched, “My son was born on November 2, 1996, he and my wife, Mary, were killed in a fire and the house burned to the ground. They never found Chris’s body. There wasn’t much left of Mary either.”

 

Sam cocked his head, leaning over the seat. “Was your son gifted?”

 

John nodded reluctantly. “He was only six months old, but yes; they think he was a telekinetic.”

 

“That fits,” Sam said. “I’ve check med records for all the children whose remains were not found at the site, all of them had some magic related gift—witches, psychics, telekinetics. All the dead who were recovered were non-magical.”

 

John sighed; he felt his breath hitch and Dean glanced over at the older man. Quietly, he took his hand off the wheel, slid it across the seat and grasped John’s fingers. John curled his own fingers around Dean’s palm, letting his thumb stroke the callused flesh. 

 

Trying to shake the somber mood in the car John sat forward, motioning to an exit on the highway. “If we’re going to Nevada can we go by Area 51 and see the aliens? They’d let you guys in, right--since you’re FBI?”

 

Sam gave John a look, raised his eyebrows, and said. “There are no such things as aliens, John. Area 51 is a test facility for experimental aircraft nothing more.”

 

“That’s what they want you to believe. They have that ship that crashed in Roswell, and they have those three aliens frozen in kryptonite.”

 

Dean ginned, “Carbonite…”

 

“Yeah, see, he knows.” John said motioning to Dean, who just shook his head. Sam reached over the seat and whacked the other agent on the back of the head.

 

“Don’t encourage him. There are no aliens, John—none. Just B-2 Bombers and Stealth Fighter planes.” Sam said gruffly. “With all the demons, vampires and other nasty things we deal with aren’t you satisfied? We sure as hell don’t need aliens in the mix, and if there were they’d probably try to beat our heads in or stick something up our asses.”

 

 “Welcome to my world.”  John said with a sigh. Sam glared at him.

 

 

 

 

 

Jerome Nevada.

 

Sam groaned as he unfolded his lanky body from the backseat of the Impala. He stretched then dragged his computer out of the car, tucking it into its black case. Dean shook John awake. He tossed Sam the keys and he popped the trunk, unloading their stuff. They were staying in yet another cheap motel, the three of them living in close quarters, sharing one room; always Dean and John in one bed and Sam in the other. He had finally gotten wise to the fact that Dean always put him next to the window, and therefore, first in the line of fire and bitched long and loud about it. So they varied the bed assignments. John always cast a protection spell on their room, and set devil’s traps on the floor by the door and windows. Sam wondered how much ruined carpet and how many pissed off hotel managers they had left in their wake, considering the dye that John used to draw the traps was permanent.

 

The Best Western they checked into was a little better quality than they had found in the fleabag hotels they had been using, And Sam felt a little better. He dragged his gear out of the trunk.  They sat about doing the mundane tasks that needed taking care of, and considering how they all smelled laundry was first on the list.

 

The room was bigger than usual as well, with a large glass window, Sam frowned. “Liability number one,” he said.  Dean shrugged.

 

“It’s all they got. John can fix it.”  Dean said hitching thumb at the older man. Sam still looked annoyed.

 

“He can fix it as far as paranormal beings go, but not mobsters. Don’t forget Elliot probably has Jack Carter's men out beating the bushes for us. A bullet can come through a protection spell.”

 

John looked up. “I can do one that can keep out a bullet, but you have to get the blood of a virgin, it’s inviolable, hey--I don’t make up the rules. And I don’t need a lot, a few drops will do.”

 

With a wicked grin Dean said, “Here Sam, just stick your finger with the point of my knife, he just needs a few drops.”

 

“You’re so amusing, Dean.” Sam retorted. John looked appraisingly at the younger agent; Sam cut him off with a rude gesture.

 

“Do not even go there, witch.” 

 

After lunch they sat around the table in the diner, Sam pulling up newspaper articles on the laptop. “There were seven fires here; all in 1996 it took out almost half a city block.”

 

Turning the laptop Dean scanned the article. “That’s the most that we’ve seen since the initial fires in LA. Does it say how man infants were involved?”

 

Shaking his head Sam frowned. “No, and I can’t find any archival work either. I guess we have to do this the old fashioned way. I’ll take the news paper. You and John can have the cemeteries. There are three, I wrote down the addresses.”

 

Dean groaned, “Why do we get the cemeteries? Do you know how long we’ll have to walk around reading headstones?”  John glanced over at him and Dean took the slip of paper Sam held out. “We have to drive from cemetery to cemetery and read through the head stones checking ages on all the children we find. We need to make a note of all those who died in 1996 and if they died when they were six months old then check them against the names of families whose houses burned. It’s a long process. Sam’ll go through the newspaper archives and make a list of names and addresses of the families who were involved in the fires. Its part of the grunt work, but it has to be done.”

 

“Why do we get stuck with the cemeteries?” John asked. Sam smiled at him, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair.

 

“Because you two were being so bitchy to me.”

 

It was just after six p.m. when Dean and John climbed out of the Impala and crossed the road to the Spring Hill Cemetery. The tall wrought iron gates were still propped open but there wasn't another person in sight. The sun was beginning to dip behind the low foothills just above the neat, green expanse of the graveyard.  Across the newer part of the cemetery with its flat bronze plaques was a smaller area surrounded by a low brick wall. Dean walked through the newer graves flashing a light onto the names. "These are all Military graves probably the National Memorial Park we read the sign for out on the highway.” John nodded. With a sigh Dean motioned him to the older part of the cemetery.

 

They hopped the wall, and ended up beside a grave with a granite marker that had a lamb carved in the top of the stone along with the inscription "Little Lamb." John bent down excitedly motioning the younger man over. "This is it," John said. "This entire area is for children."

 

Brushing the dirt away from the inscription John knelt down and copied the child's name, birth date and date of death from the headstone. "He's too old, almost a year. You know I've always had this thing about graveyards, they creep me out."

 

"You get used to it in our line of work. Most of the time the dead can't hurt you, it’s the living you need to watch out for. But once in a while the dead come back with a vengeance, and it's usually me and Sam they're trying to kill." Dean bent down scraping the dying grass away from a white marble stone. "John, here--Lisa Heddley, November 2, 1996." He waved his hand and John passed him the pad and pen.

 

"This one too, Dean…Kyle Pruitt also November 2, 1996. That's the last of the seven Sam mentioned."

 

"Well, that gives us enough to start with anyway…" Dean's head came up, and he shoved the pad at the other man. John jerked around, eyes scanning the horizon. Slowly Dean reached behind him and pulled the .45 tucked into his waistband.

 

Across the neat rows of markers something moved. The reddish clay piled around one of the military graves began to shuffle and slide. The clods bouncing down the mound, and skittering across the yellowing grass.  As the clay shifted, a pair of grimy fingers appeared in the hole, then the clay burst outward and a hand groped the air.

 

By the time Dean had pulled John behind him, and stalked to the wall the zombie was half out of the grave. Whatever had killed the guy had been messy, Dean decided. The zombie's face was half torn away, one eye bulging above the rough gray meat of a dissected cheek. The other eye was missing, and the zombie cocked his head. He lurched to his feet turning slowly toward the two humans standing by the wall.

 

Suddenly he erupted into a long-legged gallop charging the wall with a twisted grimace on his face that was half-way between fury and glee. His loping stride brought him across the cemetery and the wall in a few seconds. Gathering his energy the zombie made a jump for the wall--teeth gnashing.

 

Dean raised the gun, cocking his head slightly he snapped off one shot. The gun's recoil sent his arm back into John's chest and he stumbled. Terrified John pushed back, arms cart-wheeling to keep his balance and propel him into flight if necessary.

 

But it looked as if fleeing was not necessary. Dean's shot caught the zombie mid-forehead and what was left of his brains blew out the back of his skull. He sank to the ground limbs still twitching with preempted momentum.

 

"Holy shit!" John muttered. "I thought they were supposed to be slow."

 

Dean smiled grimly, "Yeah, a lot of people think that. It's why they usually die.

We need to salt and burn the remains. You stay here and keep a look out. I'll go get the salt canister, the gas can and some shovels."

 

John huffed, "You're shitting me. I'm not staying here alone with that thing."

 

"It's dead now." Dean said stiffly. John shot him a look.

 

"Yeah, and it was dead when we got here too, but that didn't stop it."

 

In the end John refused to stay alone or go alone, so both he and Dean made the trip to the car and back. It took only a few minutes to salt the sagging corpse and set it alight. The body burned with that special odor only dead human flesh could emit, and John looked half nauseous by the time the fire burned down. Dean and he shoveled the ashes back into the grave and begin replacing the clay. John slammed a big pile of ashes into his part of the grave and sneezed, inhaling a face full of zombie. He spit and Dean grinned at him.

 

 "I think that technically makes you a cannibal."

John did not look amused. By the time they had the grave settled the sun was long gone. They dragged the shovels, salt and other material back to the Impala. John was twitching with unspent energy, and Dean was flushed and sweating more than the physical labor warranted.

 

They set out on the road back to town.

 

 

The sky was as black as the paint of the car. Dean pulled the Impala into the side road letting the distance between them and the cemetery slip away. He drove for several miles before he could no longer stand the silence, and flicked on the radio. John looked pale and ill in the passenger side seat, a smudge of ash decorating one cheek. He glanced over at Dean tugging the seatbelt off. Nervous energy jangled his body, and John unbuttoned his jacket, letting is fall loosely at the sides. “Is that how it always is when you kill them?”

 

Dean shrugged. “I try not to think about it much afterwards, but yeah. It’s never easy. And sometimes I feel…it makes me.” His voice faded off. John closed his eyes letting his hand drift down to his crotch. He absently rubbed the prominent bulge in his jeans.  He didn’t even have to look to know that the front of Dean’s jeans was tented as well.

 

“God, stop the car. I can’t…this is killing me. How do you deal with it, the way you feel after?”

 

With a shrug Dean whispered. “I usually find a warm body, and then I just work it out.”

 

Leaning over the seat John let his fingers trail down Dean’s leg, sliding across the fly of his jeans. “I’m a warm body. Pull over…

 

“Here in the middle of nowhere. You want to christen the back seat?”

 

“Not exactly,” John hissed. Dean pulled the car over into the shadows of several huge old oak trees. John pushed the passenger side door open, stopping briefly to crank up the volume on the radio. Dean was out of his door, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He let the front of the shirt gape open, and starting working on the buttons of his jeans.  When he met the older man coming around the front of the car he caught John by the waist pushing him against the hood of the Impala. John half fell across the hood his jacket falling off one shoulder, shivering as the cold metal came into sudden contact with his heated skin. Sliding his hands into Dean’s hair, John pulled the younger man down for a kiss. His tongue slid over Dean’s lips and Dean opened to him. Grunting Dean slid his hands under the curve of John’s ass, and lifted him bodily up onto the hood of the car. John toed off his boots and slid his jeans and boxers down and off, dropping them onto the ground. Dean managed to get his fly unbuttoned and pushed his jeans down to his knees.

 

John found if too difficult to stay on the hood entirely, so he slid forward leaving his hips propped on the hood, with one foot on the ground and the other on the front bumper. Dean stepped between John’s legs. Pulling a foil packet out of his pocket, Dean rolled the condom on, “There’s some lube on it, but it might be a little dry.”

 

“It’s okay, believe me, I’m ready. I’ve been damn ready for days now.”

 

Dean caught John’s hand and wrapped it around Dean’s hip then he leaned forward, and thrust in. John was tight, and he winced a little, but otherwise it was sheer nirvana. John let one of his hands slide down Dean’s hip to catch the chrome grill. His fingers slipped around the vertical strut, sliding up and down. Dean cocked an eyebrow at John and slipped his own hand down, catching John’s fingers. His own fingers rode John’s and they stroked the chrome together, in time to Dean’s thrusts.

 

The chrome became a living thing under the rhythm of their hands. John could feel his heat combined with Dean’s warming the metal, making it a malleable extension of themselves. As he stroked the chrome, Dean felt the metal vibrate under his hand as if the car was humming. He was almost certain he could hear the thrum of the big engine, he gasped sure that the car could run on pure testosterone. John’s fingers became frantic under his, stroking the chrome as if he could make the car come. Grasping Dean’s hip with the other hand John muttered under his breath, and the car rumbled to life.

 

Dean jerked his head back when the engine turned over, he grinned at the other man, and John wrapped his hand around Dean’s neck pulling him into another kiss. Dean pulled back nuzzling John’s neck, running his tongue through the fine, sharp stubble on his throat. Finally, Dean’s sharp white teeth nicked the flesh of John’s shoulder. He bit down, and thrust up at the same time. Pinned between the hot breath and sharp teeth and Dean’s equally hot cock John’s head rocked back, and he shouted Dean's name like an invocation.

 

Dean felt and heard, more than saw, John come. The wet warmth that spread against his chest sent him over. He dropped his hands, to John’s hips lifting him up and slamming him down, and came--face buried in John’s neck.

 

John drew a deep shuddering breath, and slid back to lie down on the hood of the Impala. “God, I love this car.”

The hotel parking lot was empty when the Impala turned the corner onto Main Street and slipped into a space just below the staircase to the second floor. The two men tumbled out of the car and took the stairs up to their room. Dean paused at the doorway, pulling John into his arms. He kissed the older man, sliding his hands through John’s dark curls. “I’m sorry…about it being on the car, the first time; I wanted to do something special for you.”

 

“What a dozen roses and a big heart-shaped box of candy? I’m not that kind of guy and neither are you.” John smiled, tugging Dean’s hands out of his hair. “It was special, and I’m not sorry it was on the car. That was really hot. For the record I do really love that car. I haven’t felt like that about sex since Mary died. What I do, you know, for clients…there's nothing for me in that. They get what they wanted, I don’t have to want it, just provide it. I haven’t come with someone else in years.”

 

Dean pulled him close, letting his lips drift across the curve of John’s cheek, paint the thin skin of his eyelids, sweep down the bridge of his nose, finally finding his lips again. They stood draped in shadows for a few minutes before, regretfully, pulling apart.

 

The door was unlocked but Sam had salted the entrance. Dean and John carefully stepped over the line of crystals and went inside. The lights were still on; Sam seated on one of the beds with several stacks of printer paper surrounding him. He looked up as his partner and John came in the door.

 

Sam shot his partner a grim look. He could tell from the relaxed roll of Dean’s gait, the slight swagger combined with an easy insouciance that Dean and John had finally gotten around to doing something about the underlying tension between them that had set Sam’s nerves on edge for days now.  Since neither man was sporting any serious bruising Sam was betting that they hadn’t fought it out somewhere, so that left only one thing. And the teeth marks on John’s neck just below his beard left very little to Sam’s imagination.

 

Yawning hugely, Sam shifted the papers onto the table between the beds then turned to his partner. “Did you find the names?” he asked.

 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, we got all seven.”

 

He leaned over the bed and dropped the slips of paper onto Sam’s pile. Sam caught a whiff of gasoline as Dean passed him. He looked closely at both men, and then noticed the smudge of ash on John’s face.

 

“So what did you run into?” he asked smiling. Dean shrugged but John settled on the foot of the bed. He rubbed at the spot adorning his face, and grinned.

 

“Zombie,” he said. “A nasty one, too. I didn’t realize the sons of bitches were so fast. I see why you guys keep cleaning those guns of yours. At first, I just thought that you got on off on it, but if I had to deal with those bastards all the time, I’d sleep with the damn gun.”

 

“That would be Dean.” Sam said snottily.

 

Dean flipped him off. 

 

The younger agent grinned. “Guys, I’m whipped. How about calling it a night?”

 

John rose, “I want to get a quick shower, I’ve got powered zombie all over me.” Dean slid up behind him, and pressed his face into John’s neck.

 

“Shower tomorrow, I want to smell me on you tonight.”

 

 

 

The black Cadillac Escalade was obviously out of place in the dirt and gravel parking lot of Tony’s Diner in Barstow. The two men and one woman were as out of place as the car. The larger of the men, dressed in a cream colored linen suit and tan shirt was talking on a cell phone, giving whoever was on the other end a play by play account of what they saw.

 

The other man, smaller and somehow more deadly looking was passing a trio of photographs around the room, making a nuisance of himself with the staff.  Tony himself was on the verge of kicking the three out, but something about the two men set his nerves on fire. Hoping to get rid of them he glanced at the photos then frowned. Picking up the last picture he nodded. “Yeah, I definitely remember this guy, the witch. He healed my cook’s arm.”

 

“Did they say where they were going?”

 

Tony shrugged. The woman got into the picture then. “Can you just show me where they were sitting?” she asked politely. Tony felt very uneasy about this, but he nodded, taking them to the rear corner booth.     The woman slid into one of the seats while the two men stood guard around her. She placed both hands on the table, and jerked as a vision hit her.  The room spun around her, and she could just make out an image of John Winchester sitting at the table talking to a little boy. Later she saw the cook come and take him through the back. Rising quickly she moved to the door to the kitchen and placed a hand against the wall. “They went to a motel, close to here to spend the night. I can pick up the trail there.”

 

The Wayside Motel looked every bit as unappetizing a place as Marcus had ever seen. The buildings were run down, peeling paint and broken windows. The parking lot held a handful of cars, all parked around the central area of the hotel's three wings. Shirley got out of the Caddy and headed for the stairs. She paused letting her hand rest on the bent and rusted railing. “Yes, they were here. I’m beginning to see a pattern,” she said.

 

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I see a pattern too. They’re doing what everybody on the run does--using cash to cut the paper trail, and moving from place to place pretty damn fast. You don’t have to be a psychic to see that one, Shirley.”

 

She shot him a look, and pulled her hand away from the railing. “They’re heading East. I got that much, and if I’m not mistaken Mr. Carter has his network out looking for the car.”

 

Jack Carter was seated at his desk when the phone call came in. A man from the newspaper in Jerome, Nevada of all places had called. He had seen three men fitting the description of the two agents and Winchester the day before, staying at the Best Western Hotel. And as far as he knew they were still there.

 

Carter hung up and punched in Marcus’s cell phone number. The big man answered his voice tense with anger. “Yeah, boss. We’re tracked them to Barstow, but its slow going. Oh yeah, where? Huh, where the hell is that? Don’t worry I’ll MapQuest it on the laptop. Shirley’s picking them up, but it's hard over so long a distance and these guys Morgan and Bennett they're no fools, they don’t make it easy.”  Marcus flipped the phone closed. “Okay we gotta pack it up. Boss said one of his guys called from some Ass Backward little shithole called Jerome, Nevada.”

 

The other man made a motion with one shoulder, jerking his head toward the woman, but Marcus shook his head. “Marcus, you want me to drive. If we break it up we’ll get there without having to stop.”

 

“Yeah sure Charlie. I’m gonna stretch out in the back and snooze a bit. I’ll spot you when we get down the way. If we switch over we’ll be there in the by nightfall.” He passed the keys to the other man, and they got into the car.  Shirley felt a prickle of unease as they passed the hotel. But she looked out at the bland, barren desert passing by and let her senses stretch out searching for the three men.

 

 

 

Sam closed the book he had been reading and rubbed his hand over his eyes. It had been a long and boring day at the library looking through old bound copies of Jerome’s only daily newspaper. He had cross referenced all the children’s names Dean and John had gotten off grave markers with the surnames of families whose houses had burned down in 1996. Of the seven cases, only two of the infants’ remains had not been found.

 

He added those names to a running list he had compiled on his laptop. So far the demon had killed one hundred and fifteen children, out of the one hundred and twenty-eight fires, meaning that thirteen children were unaccounted for.  Over the past few days Sam had hacked the medical database for medical records on all the children who had presumably died in the fires. Only the thirteen missing children had paranormal abilities-including John Winchester’s son Christopher. 

 

Winchester’s case was ground zero-which made sense because he was present at the ritual of summoning. Sam had even researched Elliot’s and Carter’s families, but neither man had a child who had been born in 1996 so they had been spared. Of course they had given the demon free passage, and that meant that when he and Dean went to Washington with the tape both men would be facing the death penalty as accessories before the fact for a grand total of three hundred and forty-nine counts of murder, not to mention the illegal summoning and granting the right of passage to a felon demon. Neither man was going to see the light of day outside of prison again, and if Sam had anything to do with it they would both go to the gas chamber.

 

Glancing at his watch Sam closed the books, shut down computer and gathered all his papers together. John and Dean would be meeting him for dinner in a few minutes. The other two men were spending the day going through their weapons and supplies. John had also mentioned that he needed supplies from the herbalist for various incantations. Dean had said they needed to restock on rock salt, and he wanted to pack more shotgun shells. He had also mentioned that he wanted to teach John how to fire a gun. The older man hadn’t been too keen on that though, so Sam was wondering how that had gone.

 

The sun was setting as he walked out of the library to the bench where he was supposed to wait for Dean and John. He glanced up at the sky, taking in the pale lavender overlain by deeper shades of gray and blue. A few stars were twinkling above the thin line of amber sunlight still painting the tops of the hills. With a grin Sam dropped his bag on the bench and glanced down the street.

 

In a few minutes the Impala pulled up. John was hanging over the rear seat, talking and laughing more than Sam could remember ever hearing him do either, and Sam sighed. Either he and Dean had done more than shoot targets out in the pasture they were going to or John had taken to guns in a big way. From the smooth glow on Dean’s face he didn’t think it was the latter.

 

Dean pulled the car onto Main Street and headed toward the downtown area, and the single strip of motels and restaurants in Jerome. They had just passed the entrance ramp for the 10 Freeway when a black Cadillac Escalade pulled onto Main Street after them. Sam was all but asleep in the front seat when a blinding pain hit him. He jerked forward rubbing his temples. Dean shot him an uneasy glance knowing that whatever vision his partner was having was a bad one.

 

Sam writhed in agony. The pain swept up his spine and exploded behind his eyes. Grasping his head in his hands he tried to ride it out.

 

_The warehouse was damp, and empty. The sounds of footsteps echoed hollowly in the dim light. Three figures appeared in the vacant doorway, silhouetted against the backdrop of harsh, orange halogen security lamps. The largest of the three, undeniably male, figures was dragging a shorter man behind him. With a grin he jerked the man’s arm sending him spinning to the ground._

_With his arms bound behind his back the smaller man fell heavily to the ground and lay stunned. Swiping one foot back the bigger man kicked the fallen man, his face twisting into a grotesque grin when he groaned in pain. A deep voice rumbled in Sam’s head, “Hey Charlie, go guard the door.”_

 

_“Why there ain’t nothin’ out there to guard it from?” Charlie snapped, but seeing the look on the bigger man’s face he backed away. “Sure thing Marcus, just leave some for me, okay.”_

_“Sure thing,” Marcus said with a sneer. “After all Johnny here is like a doorknob, everybody gets a turn…”_

_Laughing at his own joke Marcus shoved his foot into the small of John’s back, pinning him to the floor. He reached down unfastening his trousers, and crouched down. John kicked at him, but Marcus had about fifty pounds on him, and the kick was badly aimed. The big man swiped his hand down connecting solidly with John’s cheek, the skin split and John’s head rocked back. Marcus was on him and John cried out struggling futilely.  In the end John wasn't moving much, and when the big man was finished he wrapped his hands around John's throat and squeezed until John wasn't breathing either._

Sam hissed in pain. “Pull over,” he said through clenched teeth. Dean pulled the car to the curb, and Sam staggered out vomiting in the gutter. He leaned against the car when he could straighten up and drew in a deep breath. Dean was out of the car, and behind him offering his partner a bottle of water. Sam rinsed his mouth and spat into the gutter again. John came around the door, touching Sam on the shoulder. The younger man jerked away, and John backed up looking bewildered and a little scared.

 

 “I’m sorry,” he said and Sam felt like a jerk. It wasn’t John’s fault Sam had the vision and it sure as hell wasn’t his fault that John was going to get raped and murdered. Dean was going to have a fit when Sam told him this one. He looked up at John and offered him a weak smile.

 

“It’s okay. I just get startled when they hit, sometimes if it seems too real. I mean it’s always real, but it can be changed. We can do stuff to change them sometimes.” Sam sank into the front seat, not noticing the black Caddy sitting at the red light. The driver lingering just a bit too long before making a right turn onto the side street.”

 

John looked doubtful, and Dean motioned the older man over. “I need to talk to Sam about his vision. Why don’t you walk down to the Denny’s and get us a table. We’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

 

“Yeah, sure.” John smiled; he ducked his head down looking at Sam. “He doesn’t look so good. Maybe you should just take him back to the hotel. It’s not far; I can walk from the restaurant.”

 

“No, we’ll be there. Sam just needs a few minutes to unwind.” Dean smiled at John, waving him away.  He watched for a few minutes as John wandered down the sidewalk and made a right turn at the light toward the Denny's parking lot.

 

Sam was sitting in the front seat, his hands were trembling, and he still felt ill. Taking a deep breath he looked up at Dean. "Sorry, sometimes they just hit me wrong, especially when they're so violent." He glanced around the door frowning. "I need to talk to John about my vision…it concerns him."

 

Dean grunted. "Yeah, we'll talk to him at the restaurant; do you feel like getting something to eat?"

 

Rising from the seat Sam grabbed Dean's arm. "What do you mean at the restaurant, where is he?"

 

"I thought he was bugging you so I told him to walk down to the Denny's and get us a table." Dean said with a grin. The look on Sam's face wiped the grin off. Suddenly

Sam shoved Dean away.

 

"You did what? Dean you know he's in danger. Carter's men have to be after us by now.  Oh God, we have to find him."  Sam slid into the car, slamming the door. Dean looked at his partner's panicked expression and ran around the front of the Impala. He cranked the engine over.

 

"I'm sure he's okay…."

 

"No, he isn't. My vision…in my vision I saw John being raped and murdered."

 

Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes.  Dean's face was stark white and his fingers were clenched around the steering wheel so hard that Sam was afraid he'd drive the car into a lamppost.

 

"He took a right at the corner, and then its just a few feet to the entrance of the parking lot. He's probably still walking." Dean muttered. Sam nodded absently. But John wasn't in the parking lot. They took a few seconds to walk through the restaurant only to find that John wasn't there either. Dean's expression got grimmer with every second that passed.

 

The car spun out of the parking lot.  "Okay, what about your vision? Where was he when he…when it happened? What did you see in the background?"

 

Sam closed his eyes. "It was a warehouse. From the looks of it, it was abandoned. It was dark and grimy. I saw two men dragging John in, then the big man raped him and strangled him."

 

"Warehouse? When John and I were looking through the cemeteries yesterday, the last one we searched was Spring Hill. It's down this street and there's an industrial complex across the road from it. At back of the complex there was a couple of steel roofed buildings, cement tilt-up walls. Think that might be your warehouse?"

 

"Yeah," Sam said, "Cement walls, I thought that was kind of odd, but the walls were dank looking, moldy almost, but it was so dark."

 

Marcus yanked the Escalade's rear door opened. He twisted a fist into John's collar and pulled him out of the vehicle. John stumbled and Marcus shoved him to the ground. He wrapped his hand around John's skull and slammed him down, kicking him in the hip. John cringed and Marcus yanked him to his feet.

 

"You should have just stayed out of this, whore." With a grin Marcus raised his hand. It was only a backhanded slap but it all but knocked John off his feet. With a snarl John shoved his hand into his pocket, and flung a handful of powder at the bigger man. Uttering an incantation he ducked back as flames erupted in Marcus' face.  John turned and fled.

 

Charlie was at the door, and he hit John mid chest with his shoulder. The air whooshed out of John's body with a grunt and he fell. Marcus stalked to the door, and slapped John again.

 

"You get the duct tape," he asked.

 

Charlie raised a hand, producing a roll of silver tape. Marcus ripped off a length and clapped it over John's mouth then jerked his arms behind his back and bound his wrists together.

 

 "Let's see you try that again. I'm gonna make you sorry that you didn't just keep your mouth shut and your legs spread. It's all you're good for anyway."

 

The big man dragged John to his feet, and pushed him into the room. The three men stood silhouetted in the harsh orange light of the streetlamps in the parking lot. Marcus hustled John into the room. John balked and Marcus slapped him. Without his arms for balance John fell to the floor and lay stunned.

 

"Get up," Marcus hissed. When John failed to respond the other man kicked him, rolling John over onto his back.

 

Working his thick fingers into his waistband Marcus unfastened his trousers, then turned grinning to Charlie. "Go guard the door."

 

Charlie shrugged, "Just save some for me."

 

Marcus chuckled and bent down grasping John by the front of his shirt. He yanked and the material parted leaving John's chest bare. Marcus frowned at the noise Charlie was making at the door, he half rose snarling.

 

 "Jeeze will you shut up? I can't concentrate with all this noise…

 

Pausing Marcus noted that the doorway was empty. He cocked his head; maybe Charlie had to go take a leak. Turning he grabbed John again, but footsteps echoing hollowly caught his attention. With one hand twisted in John's torn shirt he stood up jerking John half way off of the floor. 

 

A shadowy figure stalked across the floor, gun raised. Light from one of the half-painted windows fell across a cold hard face. Marcus felt his stomach drop. He let John drop heavily to the floor fumbling for his gun.

 

Dean smiled and said, "Go ahead. It'll make the report look that much better."

 

Marcus paused hand half way to his pocket. "What report?"

 

"The one I have to file for killing you." Dean offered the bigger man a grim smile. Marcus held his hands out to the side, turning slowly toward the younger man. With a grin he slid back and put both hands on the top of his head.

 

"I surrender. I mean, with Carter's connections I'll be out by three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

 

 Dean raised the .45 and pulled the trigger. Marcus body jerked as a single shot hit him mid-forehead.  His eyes wide John watched from the floor as Marcus' body, seemingly unaware that it was dead, staggered one step forward then crashed to the ground. With a shudder John decided that if the damage the gun had inflicted on a zombie was bad, what it did to a living body was so much worse.

 

Dean bent down carefully lifting John up. He reached out and pulled the duct tape gently free. John spat on the floor. Not looking up Dean used his pocket knife to cut the tape at the older man's wrists.

 

"You killed him." John said in a strangled voice.

 

Dean shrugged.

 

"Won't you get in trouble for that?"

 

"He was a dangerous felon in the commission of a crime. He was trying to rape you. I had no choice. Nobody will make a fuss."

 

"He was surrendering…"

 

"No, he wasn't. He would have tried something, guys like him always do. Besides he was dead the second he put his hands on you. He just didn't know it."

Once again a grateful acknowledgment and many thanks to Sioux Sioux for all the wonderful beta work on the story.

 

Sam sat on the bed looking at John. Dean had a washcloth wrapped around a chunk of ice and was pressing it the swollen gash on John's cheek.  Dean looked as whipped as Sam could ever remember seeing him.  Taking the ice from the cloth John pressed it against the wound, winching at the contact.

 

"I'm sorry, John," Dean said his usually arrogant demeanor gone. He shook his head. "I would have never sent you on alone if I had thought that they were there, waiting for you. I messed up…"

 

"Don't worry about it. It's not your fault. It's my own damn fault for not keeping my mouth shut. Marcus was right I am only good for one thing, and I'm a danger to you two. You should cut your losses while you can, Dean. I don't want you to get in trouble for what happened. If your boss finds out about Marcus…about what you did. You could lose your badge or go to jail. I'm not worth that."

 

Sam flinched. Angrily he stood waving at the pile of papers on the table. "You're doing this to help us find this demon. You got screwed by Elliot and Carter, but you should not keep your mouth shut and you need to help us make this right--get this bastard. Dean killed a known mobster in the commission of a felony--rape. He didn't do anything wrong and no one at the bureau will say otherwise. And as for you not being worth it, you're the only person I've ever felt that Dean loved, so I'd say that makes you worth it, John."

 

Dean nodded. "We're going to get this fixed for you, John. Get your life back for you,” he said.

 

The older man offered him a tight smile.

 

Sam nodded in agreement.

 

 “I’ve been thinking we’re going about this the wrong way. We need to get that tape to Washington, and get Elliot out of the picture. That clears the way for us to the hunt the demon. If John testifies about Elliot’s part in the summoning, and if Elliot turns on Carter then we can put all the information we’ve gathered so far to good use.  And you know that Elliot will turn on him. We’re closing in. I know its slow going, but we are finding a way to track the bastard. Let’s get Elliot taken care of first. He’s going to pull out everything he’s got to stop us now.”

 

“You’re right, Sam." Dean said.  "We get to Washington first. Turn the tape over to Director Carlton and get John cleared. Then we go after the demon.”

 

Later that night Dean lay on his back staring at the ceiling. He had been stupid putting off going to Washington. He knew it was their first priority to get that tape into the right hands. He had just wanted an excuse to keep John Winchester with them a little while longer. But John had nearly been killed tonight and that meant all bets were off. He shifted turning onto his side. Dean could just make out the solid bulk of John’s body in the bed next to him. Rolling over he spooned into the curve of John’s knees, sliding his thighs against the firm bulk of the other man’s legs. John shifted dropping his hand behind him, catching Dean’s hip and pulling Dean’s groin into contact with his butt.

 

“Is your partner asleep?” John whispered.

 

Dean smiled letting his lips drift over the older man’s shoulder. He breathed against John’s skin enjoying the shiver that crawled up the other man’s spine.

 

“Dead to the world.”

 

John chuckled, a low dirty sound that made Dean’s pulse pound in his veins. He rolled over grinning at Dean in the murky lighting.

 

“That’s probably not the best expression to use in your line of work.”

 

Dean snickered too, burying his face in John’s neck to muffle the sound.

 

“Okay, okay, he’s alive and kicking and snoring like a freight train.”

 

“Good!  So he won’t hear us if we get ‘friendly’?” John said quietly. “I mean, you do make an awful lot of noise…”

 

“Me,” Dean hissed indignantly. He narrowed his eyes and mimicked John’s slight, southern accent.  

 

“Oh god! Dean, oh god! Yeah…harder, harder.”

 

John adopted a put upon expression running a hand lightly down Dean’s chest to his groin. “You could just go into the bathroom and take care of this by yourself, you know.”

 

From the other side of the room Sam snorted. “Will you two just shut up and screw already so I can get some sleep.”

 

John leaned up on one elbow. “You want to turn on the lights so you can watch?”

 

“Oh god no,” Sam said, “I already have nightmares as it is. Just keep the noise down, and I’ll go back to sleep.”

 

Dean waited until Sam’s breathing evened out again. He reached down and slipped his boxers off. He pressed closed to John sliding his hand down the older man’s chest, tugging on the wisps of hair leading down from his navel into his underwear. John hissed as Dean’s hand closed over his cock. John pushed Dean’s hand away and grasped both of them in his wide palm, stroking gently at first then more firmly as Dean arched into the touch. With a gasp John pushed Dean over onto his back and slid between his legs, sliding and pushing against him. He rode Dean until the younger man groaned. Pressing his mouth to Dean’s, John swallowed his frantic gasps as both men came.

 

Once again Dean was lying silently staring at the ceiling as the sweat dried on his body. John was a warm, heavy weight against his side, breathing soft and even. He wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder and the other man grumbled in his sleep. Dean had often wondered if John felt that sex was something that he had to do for Dean’s continued protection, not something that John wanted. Now, for the first time John had been more assertive during sex and Dean felt more at ease with the developing relationship.

 

 

Bill Elliot shuffled the napkin around the table. He pushed his plate back watching Jack Carter's face. Carter was on his third martini. As he sucked down each drink his expression grew more and more angry. Finally he dropped his glass, pointing an accusatory finger at the other man. "So you're telling me that Marcus is dead? Charlie and Shirley are in custody. What I'm hearing and correct me if I'm wrong is those two young FBI agents and the whore are on their way to Washington with that tape. Goddammit, Bill…" Carter slammed his hand down on the table upending his glass and splashing booze all over the cloth.

 

Elliot waved him down into his seat.

 

"Calm down, Jack and shut up. You're making a scene. Yes, Morgan and Bennett have Winchester but I don't know that they're going to DC just yet."

 

"Oh you can bet they will. Marcus was our best shot at them. If he could have gotten to them, and got the tape we'd be set. But now they know we can track them. And Shirley, she's going nuts, the cops are giving her drugs to block her visions, so she can't trace them any more. Do you know what happens to a psychic who is given those drugs? It's not pretty and it takes a really long time to recover afterwards.  It'll be damn impossible to get another psychic to track them now, after they find out about her."

 

Elliot mopped at the table top with his napkin, Carter uttered a curse and snatched it away, tossing it across the table onto the floor. With a grunt Elliot turned to his friend making a soothing noise.

 

"Look, we still have one more option. Morgan and Bennett will take the tape directly to the home office and I've still got one connection left. When that demon gave me my job as assistant director I bumped somebody up the chain of command and she's still a friend of mine. She'll intercept them. Morgan and Bennett won't know that they're walking into a trap and that they're taking John Winchester with them.

 

 

Dean picked up his cell phone, punched in a number and waited while the call went through. Glancing at his watch he calculated it was eight a.m. in Washington and Annette Carlton would be in her office all ready.  The phone rang at the other end, and a cool female voice answered. Dean felt a shiver run down his spine, Annette Carlton sounded like she belonged on the other end of one of those nine hundred numbers that teenaged boys were so fond of calling late at night when their parents were asleep. But the reality bore little to the fantasy. He winced as an image of [Arnold Schwarzenegger](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000216/) in drag popped into his head.

 

“Dean, honey…”  Annette said her voice low and smooth.

 

 Dean felt the shiver crawl up his spine again. 

 

“I hear you’re coming in, and you’re not alone,” The rising lilt of her voice made it more of a question than a statement.

 

 Dean nodded even though he knew that she couldn’t see him. Dean felt ten times the fool doing it, but Annette Carlton was legend in the bureau also his mentor, she had that effect on him. She had been a good friend to him, even when he was counted a rogue and friends had been hard to find. Annette had been instrumental in pairing Dean with Sam Bennett enabling the two younger agents to make a name for themselves when the Paranormal Enforcement Division was new and most of the cases were a pile of old folders in the basement with Xs on the front.

 

Dean finally drew a breath.

 

 “Yeah, Annette we’re coming in. And we’re not alone. We have an interested party with new evidence in a case coming in with us. We’re coming in hot too and you’re not going to like what we’re bringing.”

 

“I’ll deal. And Dean—don’t trust anyone. Don’t go anywhere else and don’t stop on the way. Just come straight to me, okay?”

 

“You know I will Annette.”

 

 He clicked the phone off, and turned to Sam.

 

“We need to hit the road and keep on driving. We’ll split the time behind the wheel between the three of us, stop as little as possible. I don’t want to give Bill Elliot another shot at us on the way, because we both know that he’s just waiting for one more.”

 

Sam nodded. Lifting his bag off the bed he shuffled through his belongings. From deep within the bag he took out a spare clip for his .38 and fished out a clip of silver bullets, just in case. He knew that Elliot had no qualms about trafficking with demons and other paranormals.

 

Dean had already field stripped and cleaned his .45. He made sure that he had another clip in his pocket. He handed John the gun he kept in the glove compartment of the Impala. The older man took it without much enthusiasm. Dean noted his reluctance.

 

 “Just in case but if you need to use it you can’t hesitate. I need to know that you’re going to do this John because if you can’t you’re better off without it.”

 

“If I have to I will but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’d be better off sticking to incantations. I know some offensive spells and I can do them pretty quickly.”

 

Dean shrugged.

 

“Most offensive spells only work at close range, when someone is within your sphere of influence; anything big takes too much time to set up. A gun can keep someone from getting that close, okay?”

 

Shaking his head John took the weapon and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. They loaded the car. Dean slipped into the driver’s seat, waiting whilst Sam settled beside him. John pushed his bag onto the rear seat and got into the car.

 

They had to stop once, at the intersection just before the entry ramp onto the Freeway for gas but after that it was clear driving. Talking was kept to a minimum and the wheels of the Impala ate up the miles to Washington DC.

 

John was driving when he made the last turn onto the northbound 395 Freeway heading to Washington. It was almost mid-night and he was all but nodding off over the wheel. Dean was snoring softly in the seat beside him. John nudged him in the chest with an elbow.

 

 “Dean, we’re almost to DC. It’s mid-night and I don’t see any reason to go onto downtown before tomorrow.”

 

Dean jerked in his sleep then scrubbed at his face with his hands. He could feel the coarse rub of stubble under his callused fingertips. He looked at John’s worn, heavy-lidded eyes.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. They probably wouldn’t even let us in the building looking like we do. Then it’s one more hotel for tonight then John, my dear.”

 

 

The director sat behind her desk, phone cradled to her ear. Bill Elliot’s voice was pouring over the line and her expression grew grimmer with each passing minute. Finally, when he stuttered to a halt, she grabbed the opportunity to get a word in.

 

 “Okay, Bill, I get it. As soon as Morgan and Bennett show up with Winchester I’ll take care of it.”

 

Two men were standing in front of her desk. She carefully set the phone it its cradle and turned to them.

 

“When Dean Morgan and Sam Bennett get here, make sure that they have John Winchester with them. I want all of them together and I want this done as quickly and quietly as possible. They cannot get that tape to anyone else in this building. I want you two watching the main entrance, keep an eye out for them. I’ve been told they’re on the way in now. I tracked the call that came in last night and I have a car waiting for them just outside the motel.”

 

John stood in the doorway of the hotel room, Dean and Sam both dressed in stiff navy blue suits were storing the last of their belongings in the Impala. Dean had called his friend at the bureau and told her that they were coming in this morning. They finished checking the room for anything that they might have missed. John had the video tape tucked into the pocket of his leather jacket.

 

Dean glanced in the rearview mirror and pulled the Impala onto 14th Street. Traffic was light for a Tuesday morning. He made the turn onto the 395 Freeway in just minutes. As he merged into the flow of traffic he failed to notice a blue Honda sedan following him up the ramp.

 

Sam was actually the first person to spot their tail. He glanced into the side mirror and tapped the seat next to Dean to get his attention. Glancing over Dean saw that his partner was looking in the mirror without giving the impression that he was looking in the mirror. "Blue sedan, on our tail, came on the freeway with us at 14th Street," Sam said, jerking his head at the door.

 

Nodding Dean titled his head up. "Yeah, I see them."

 

"Do you think they'll try to run us off the road?" John asked from the rear seat.

 

 Dean smiled at him in the rearview mirror.

 

"John, we're in a 1967 Impala, they're in a 2006 Honda Accord. We'd go through that thing like it was made of tinfoil."

 

Dean switched lanes pushing his speed up past the legal limit. He hoped to attract the attention of the Washington PD but no such luck. The Impala sped along the freeway weaving in and out of traffic until Dean spotted the 9th Street exit. He crossed three lanes of traffic causing Sam to squirm in the seat and took the ramp too fast. The tires screamed as the Impala swung around the clover-leaf and onto the side street.  The Honda sped by the exit ramp and Dean uttered a brief gleeful shout.

 

 "Take that, bitch!"

 

From somewhere behind them a shadow loomed over the Impala. Sam turned his face, going stark white, as the sunlight was blocked from the car's passenger cabin. Wind whistled over the top of the car as a semi-truck filled the rearview mirror. Dean cursed dragging the wheel around. The semi plowed into the Impala mid-cabin. Tires shrieking the car slewed around, smoke trailing from underneath the chassis as the truck lifted the car on its nose and bore it forward onto the shoulder rolling it onto the downward slope of the grassy knoll.  Dean slumped sideways in the front seat, and Sam was sprawled over the passenger side window pinned against the side door by his seat belt. By fate, John was sitting on the driver's side, but he was slammed against the back of the front seat his black duffle bag jammed against his side. He struck his head on the seat and felt darkness closing over him.

 

Dean rolled his head forward feeling his neck pop and crack. With a hiss of pain he fished his .45 out of the holster under his jacket, clicking off the safety. Sam was shoving himself upright, mumbling under his breath. He rubbed his neck and turned to Dean. Noting that his partner had unholstered his weapon Sam pulled his own gun.  He looked over the back seat and frowned.

 

"John," Sam hissed, then quickly unfastened his seatbelt and kicked the door open. "John, come on. Wake up, John, we have to go!"

 

Suddenly, the driver's side door was jerked free, A big man twisted his fist into Dean's jacket jerking him forward. Dean snarled, raised the gun and fired once. The bullet caught the man squarely in the chest and he staggered back.  Dean thrust his legs out of the car, sliding along the side for support and emptied half a clip into the trucker's body before the big man sagged forward. With a groan his knees hit the grass and the man's head snapped back as he vomited a cloud of black smoke into the air.

 

Sam grunted. "Demonic possession."

 

Dean nodded. "Bill Elliot is at it again. How's John?"

 

Sam ducked down and pried the rear door open. John was just stirring. Sam grabbed him by the arm, hauling him out, praying that the older man didn’t have any head or back injuries. Without a sound John snatched his black bag off the seat and slung it over his free arm. Sam took a minute to search for the tool kit he kept under the seat of the car, tucking it under his arm. Apparently Dean had been right about the Honda. They hadn’t even tried to take them out with the car; they’d gotten something much more effective. Wincing in pain Sam looked at the Impala, it was totaled. Dean was going to be pissed.

 

Limping over the patchy grass, Sam dragged John to where Dean was standing. The older agent was staring at his car. Slowly his face twisted. Quickly he took John’s arm pulling it over his shoulder he supported John as they stumbled down the slope and across the drainage ditch.  They came out of the brush on the wrong side of a chain link fence. Sam pulled a pair of wire cutters out of his tool kit, and cut through the links as John and Dean pushed the wire back. John grinned.

 

“Do you guys notice how much time you spend cutting through fences and breaking into things?” he asked. Sam shrugged.

 

“It happens to us all the time,” he offered by way of an explanation.

 

John glanced at him saying, “Oh, it’s sort of a new thing for me.”

The fence opened onto 9th Street. Dean could see the intersection to E Street just a few hundred feet to the north. He tugged John’s arm over his shoulder again, helping the older man limp along the sidewalk. With a sigh he looked at the main entry way into the Hoover Building. There were two staircases up and two down, a steady stream of tourists pouring into the building. It would be easy for them to slip into the throng of sightseers but they would have to show their badges and weapons at the door. If it was being watched that would single them out to whoever was waiting.

 

Dean opted for crossing the street, illegally, at the mid-point between blocks. A car honked swerving to avoid them. Sam flashed his badge at the driver, who merely flipped them off.

 

 “No respect for authority.” He growled after the car.

 

Following Dean across the street they ducked past the concrete barriers set up after 9/11 to keep vehicles from parking too close to the building and around to the construction area at the rear of the complex. The bureau was expanding the parking structure and huge tilt-up concrete walls stood half finished, draped in plastic sheeting. Dean motioned Sam and John against one of the walls, pushing the plastic sheeting away to get a clear look through the glass door into the building. There were two guards standing in front of the door and a third inside the building beside the metal detectors. He frowned.  It would be practically impossible for John to cast a spell on all three guards simultaneously. He would have to settle for John taking the two outside guards down first and hoping that the third guard came outside when her two companions went down.

 

“John, I need to you to do what you did with the guards in LA. Can you get both of them from this far?”

 

“It’s a stretch, but I think so. But Dean, there’s a third guard in the building. The spell won’t hit her, so she’ll still be in play if we rush the door.”

 

“I know, I know, just take out the two outside for now, maybe if they let us pass without making a sound she’ll relax and you can take her out once the door is open.”

 

John nodded.

 

“I’ll have to do the spell twice, in quick succession so there might be some backlash. Just be prepared for it. I’ll try to keep it small.”

 

Quickly John pulled out the herbs, and oil needed to cast the spell. Grinding the herbs into a fine powder he took most of the powder in one hand, holding a little back for the second casting. He muttered the incantation and blew the powder into the air.  He whispered the words he had uttered the first night he had gone with Dean and Sam.

 

“Turn a blind eye.”

 

Once again Sam and Dean found themselves walking past guards who failed to even notice them.  They followed John past the two men, slipping inside the doors. The woman at the metal detector looked up as the door whooshed open. With a frown she raised a hand, motioning for them to stop. John muttered the incantation. But his timing was off before he had a chance to complete the spell the woman’s hand went to an alarm button on the metal detector and a siren sounded in the hall. The door snapped shut behind them and John cursed. The woman raised her weapon and trained it on all three.

Thinking quickly Dean hustled John around, jerking his arms up behind his back just as three deputies appeared at the top of the stairs.  He jerked his head at Sam who raised his badge and id. Dean pushed John forward.

 

 “It’s okay we got him.”

 

The deputies milled around, finally one of the three stepped forward looking at Sam’s id.

 

 “We have orders to take all uncleared persons to the Director’s office.”

 

“We’ll take him,” Dean said praying silently that they would concede.

 

 He desperately did not want to have to kill three deputies.  John stood head down, not looking at the men. One of the deputies moved closer, reaching out to tilt John’s head up and look at his face. John jerked his head away, tugged his hands free and muttered a spell flinging a handful of herbs at the taller man. Flames erupted in the deputy’s face. He fell back crying out. The other two men drew their guns. Dean uttered one brief curse and pulled his .45 tucking it under the wounded deputy’s chin.

 

“Don’t make me kill him. Lower your guns. Sam…’

 

The younger man grabbed John, hustling him toward the elevator. Dean shoved his captive toward the other two men who stumbled into them ruining their chance for a clean shot. Bullets struck the wall behind him as Dean ran after Sam and John. Finally, the elevator door slid open, and the three men disappeared inside.

 

They got out of elevator on the tenth floor. Sam whirled as the second elevator chimed.

 

"They're coming," he shouted.

 

Dean grabbed John's hand and dragged him toward the newly constructed south wing of the building. Sam turned running in the opposite direction just as the elevator doors swung open. Bullets dinged the tiling at his feet. The young man levered his gun up snapping off a shot. The deputies dodged back into the car as Sam disappeared down the corridor toward the newer part of the building.

 

The head deputy paused as his radio went off. He picked up the microphone.

 

"Yeah, we have three intruders on the tenth floor in the restricted area."  He waited while the voice on the other end gave instructions. As one of the deputies started after Sam he held up a hand.

 

"Wait, the Director's office says they're sending up someone to take care of this, we need to wait for them."

 

Annette Carlton was sitting at her desk when the alarm at the south entrance of the building went off. She grabbed her phone calling the guard post and got the description of the three men breaking in. With a muttered curse she headed to the elevators on the south corridor.

 

Sam rounded the corner of the corridor and slammed his back against the wall. He could still hear the hollow clacking of boot heels on the floor from somewhere behind him. A shadow suddenly blocked the pale yellow sunlight coming through a plastic draped window.  Drawing a deep breath Sam paused feeling the sweat trickling down the back of his neck in the late morning heat. The footfalls receded then came closer, finally stalling all together. Still Sam didn't move, he barely breathed. The shadow blurred the edges of the square of sunlight again. This time Sam moved. Jerking his arm up he rounded the corner at a dead run. As soon as he cleared the plastic sheeting and had a clean shot he took it. The gun shot echoed and re-echoed in the empty room. The big man, dressed in a dark blue suit, spun around blood jetting out of his neck. He fell, eyes vacant and staring. Sam barely spared him a glance before heading back down the corridor into the old wing of the building.

 

John was limping, he had a painful catch in his side and he was out of breath but he didn't complain as Dean dragged him around the waist level partition between the rooms of the corridor they were in. A man dressed in a charcoal gray suit raised his gun, firing one shot at the retreating pair. The bullet hit the paneling behind them. Dean shoved John ahead turning to take a shot at their pursuer.  He stumbled as he turned and fell, pushing John down the corridor.

 

"Run, get back to the elevator and go to the fifth floor to Annette Carlton's office."

 

With a panicked expression John tried to lever the fallen man off of the floor.  A second shot cut the wall above his head. Flinching John ran around the corner and made a sharp turn back toward the elevators. Behind him he saw Dean disappearing into a side door.

 

The man in the gray suit followed Dean into the room. Taking advantage of the distraction John dashed across the floor scrambling for the elevator. Just as he got to the corridor leading to the bank of elevators, the light flickered and the elevator sprang open. Sighing in relief John saw a large, bulky looking woman in a neat red-plaid suit step out. She smiled holding her hand out to him.

 

"John Winchester, I presume. Do you have the tape with you?"

 

"Yeah, here, it's in my pocket. Are you Dean's friend, Ms. Carlton?"

 

She smiled, "Actually, no. I'm afraid that I'm Vikkie Bolton, a very old and dear friend of Bill Elliot's, and he asked me to take care of you. Just make it easy on yourself John, and I'll make it as quick as possible."

 

Pulling a gun out of her jacket Vikkie waved it at John. He swallowed and fished the tape out of his pocket. She reached over, taking the tape, and sliding it into her jacket. Raising the gun Vikkie pulled the trigger.

 

John gasped, cringing as the shot rang in the still air. He clasped his hand to his chest feeling for the gun shot wound and was surprised to see his shirt smooth and clean. Vikkie staggered forward one step then sagged to the ground. John could see that the back of her jacket was soaked in blood. He looked up as Sam stepped around the corner.  Carefully he flipped the woman's body over with his foot; she wasn't breathing. Reaching down Sam grabbed the tape and tucked it into his coat.

 

"Where's Dean?" he asked grimly.

 

 John motioned to the hallway and the opened door leading into a darkened room. They both started as the sound of a pair of gunshots, then, both Sam and John ran for the side door. Dean staggered out of the door hand clamped to his arm. Blood leaking between his fingers, but his face was twisted into a grim smile.

 

"Dean!"

 

John quickly moved to the younger man's side. Dean threw one arm over John's shoulder, pulling him close. Closing his eyes Dean breathed in the warm, musky scent of the older man.

"Oh god, Dean, I thought that you were…"

 

Smiling Dean slid his hand through John's beard stoking the tip of his finger over John's mouth.  He leaned forward letting his lips slide along the path his fingers had taken until he could seal their mouths together. Trembling Dean sucked the air out of John's lungs like a dying man coming up for the last time. 

 

"Oh, god, baby," he whimpered. "It's almost over. We're almost home."

 

If John took offense at being called baby he didn’t mention it. Sam got his arm under Dean's shoulder and hoisted him up. The three men staggered into the elevator, heading for Director Carlton's office.

 

 

A week later John, Dean and Sam stood inside the conference room on the eleventh floor of the Hoover Building. Dean's arm was still in a sling. John stood nervously eyeing the group of men and women seated around the huge oak table in the center of the room. Finally, Annette Carlton stood up smiling at him.

 

"After viewing the taped evidence in the Maxfield kidnapping case, it is clear to the persons assembled here that John Winchester is not guilty of the crime of unlawful summoning of a felon demon. We intend to present this evidence to the court and the conviction can be expunged from your record. I've already applied to the Bureau of Paranormal Affairs to have your license to practice witchcraft re-issued. Bill Elliot and Jack Carter were both taken into custody this morning in Los Angeles. You will be required to testify at their criminal trials, Mr. Winchester. In the mean time, the bureau has a proposition to make to you.  The use of a civilian consultant, such as yourself; especially one gifted in the use of spells and incantations would be an invaluable asset to out agents in their pursuit of paranormal phenomena. The bureau would like to offer you employment as a civilian consultant to accompany Agents Morgan and Bennett in the course of this and other investigations."

 

John cocked his head.

 

"You mean I'd travel with Sam and Dean and help them locate and prosecute unlawful paranormal beings?"

 

"Yes," she said softly, offering him her hand. "If you would find that agreeable."

 

Smiling John shook her hand.  "I find that extremely agreeable."

 

Annette walked with the three men to the lobby of the Hoover Building.

 

"As soon as Dean is medically cleared for duty you can get back on this case. We still have some work to do to make sure the case against Elliot and Carter is watertight, but we'll get there. Oh by the way, Dean. Bobby Singer in the vehicle repair department dropped this off for you this morning." A set of keys lay on her hand.

He took them, their appearance familiar. Turning he looked at the vehicle parked in front of the building. The Impala sat gleaming in the afternoon sun. Dean felt a lump in his throat as he turned and hugged Annette.

 

"Annette, I don't know what to say.  She looks beautiful."

 

She smiled.

 

 "You guys have got a lot of work to do. So go get to it."

 

Grinning Dean saluted. He slung one arm around John and the other around Sam. "You heard the lady, boys let's hit it."

 

The End


End file.
